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-•li:.e J;e i. co^ i; es.de 2.e-h:II. 



THE 




POETICAL WORKS 



S. T. COLERIDGE. 



EDITED BY 

HERMAN HOOKER. 




NEW YORK: 
LEAVITT & ALLEN, 

27 DEY-STREET. 
1853. 



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C. A. ALVORD. Printer, 
20 Gold-street. 



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PREFACE, 



\1 



Compositions resembling those of the present 
volume are not unfrequeritly condemned for 
their querulous Egotism. But Egotism is to be 
condemned, then, only when it offends against 
Time and Place, as in an History or an Epic 
Poem. To censure it in a Monody or Sonnet is 
almost as absurd as to disUke a circle for being 
round. Why, then, write Sonnets or Monodies? 
Because they give me pleasure when perhaps 
nothing else could. After the more violent 
emotions of Sorrow, the mind demands amuse- 
ment, and can find it in employment alone ; but, 
full of its late sufferings, it can endure no em- 
ployment not in some measure connected with 
them. Forcibly to turn away our attention to 
general subjects, is a painful and most often an 
unavailing effort. 

But O! how grateful to a wounded heart 
The tale of misery to impart— 




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PREFACE. 

From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow, 
And raise esteem upon the base of woe! 

Shaw. 

The communicativeness of our nature leads 
us to describe our own sorrows ; in the endea- 
vour to describe them, intellectual activity is ex- 
erted ; and from intellectual activity there results 
a pleasure, which is gradually associated, and 
mingles as a corrective, with the painful subject 
of the description. "True!" (it may be an- 
swered,) " but how are the Public interested in 
your Sorrows or your Description V We are 
for ever attributing personal Unities to imaginary 
Aggregates. — What is the Public, but a term 
for a number of scattered individuals ? of whom 
as many will be interested in these sorrows as 
have experienced the same or similar. 

Holy be the lay 
Which mourning soothes the mourner on his way. 

If I could judge of others by myself, I should 
not hesitate to affirm, that the most interesting 
passages in our most interesting Poems are 
those in which the Author developes his own 
feelings. The sweet voice of Cona* never 

* Ossian. 



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sounds so sweetly, as when it speaks of itself; 
and I should almost suspect that man of an un- 
kindly heart, who could read the opening of the 
third book of the Paradise Lost without peculiar 
emotion. By a law of our Nature, he, who 
labours under strong feehng, is impelled to seek 
for sympathy ; but a Poet's feelings are all 
strong. — Quicqtiid amet valde amat. — Akenside 
therefore speaks with philosophical accuracy 
when he classes Love and Poetry, as producing 
the same effects : — 

Love and the wish of Poets when their tongue 
Would teach to others' bosoms, what so charms 
Their own.* 

There is one species of Egotism which is truly 
disgusting ; not that which leads us to commu- 
nicate our feelings to others, but that which 
would reduce the feelings of others to an iden- 
tity with our own. The Atheist, who exclaims, 
" Pshaw," when he glances his eye on the 
praises of Deity, is an Egotist : an old man, 
when he speaks contemptuously of Love -verses, 
is an Egotist : and the sleek Favourites of For- 




* Pleasures of Imagination 










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tune are Egotists, when they condemn all " me- 
lancholy, discontented" verses. Surely it would 
be candid not merely to ask whether the poem 
pleases ourselves, but to consider whether or no 
there may not be others, to whom it is well cal- 
culated to give an innocent pleasure. 

I shall only add, that each of my readers will, 
I hope, remember that these Poems on various 
subjects, which he reads at one time, and under 
the influence of one set of feelings, were written 
at different times, and prompted by very differ- 
ent feelings ; and therefore that the supposed 
inferiority of one Poem to another may some- 
times be owing to the temper of mind in which 
he happens to peruse it. 

S. T. C. 






My Poems have been rightly charged with a 
profusion of double epithets, and a general tur- 
gidness. I have pruned the double epithets 
v/ith no sparing hand ; and used my best efforts 
to tame the swell and glitter both of thought 
and diction. This latter fault, however, had 
insinuated itself into my Religious I^Iusings 





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PREFACE. VU 

with such intricacy of union, that sometimes I 
have omitted to disentangle the weed from the 
fear of snapping the flower. A third and 
heavier accusation has been brought against 
me, that of obscurity ; but not, I think, with 
equal justice. An Author is obscure when his 
conceptions are dim and imperfect, and hia. 
language incorrect, or unappropriate, or in- 
volved. A poem that abounds in allusions, 
like the Bard of Gray, or one that impersonates 
high and abstract truths, hke Collins's Ode on 
the Poetical Character, claims not to be popu- 
lar — but should be acquitted of obscurity. The 
deficiency is in the Reader. But this is a charge 
which every Poet, whose imagination is warm 
and rapid, must expect from his ccntemporaries. 
Milton did not escape it ; and it was adduced 
v/ith virulence against Gray and Collins. We 
now hear no more of it ; not that their poems 
are better understood at present than they were 
at their first publication ; but their fame is esta- 
blished ; and a critic would accuse himself of 
frigidity or inattention, who could profess not to 
understand them. But a living writer is yet 
suhjudice ; and if we cannot follow his concep- 



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tions, or enter into his feelings, it is more con- 
soling to our pride to consider him as lost be- 
neath, than as soaring above, us. If any man 
expect from my poems the same easiness of 
style which he admires in a drinking-song, for 
him I have not written. hitelligibUla, non in- 
tellectum adfero. 

I expect neither profit or general fame by my 
writings ; and I consider myself as having been 
amply repaid without either. Poetry has been to 
me its own "exceeding great reward:" it has 
soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied and re- 
fined my enjoyments ; it has endeared solitude ; 
and it has given me the habit of wishing to dis- 
cover the Good and the Beautiful in all that 
meets and surrounds me. 






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CONTENTS 



PAGE 

The Ancient Mariner. In Seven Parts- 
Part ! 17 

Part II 20 

Part III 23 

Part IV 27 

PartV 30 

Part VI 31 

Part VII 39 

Notes to the Ancient Mariner .... 4-1 

Christabei, Part 1 49 

Part II 62 

Genevieve 76 

Sonnet. To the Autumnal Moon . . . ib. 
The Raven. A Christmas Tale . . . .77 

Music 79 

Absence. A Farewell Ode on quitting School 

for Jesus College, Cambridge ... 81 

Sonnet. On the Same 82 

To the Muse . ib. 






X CONTENTS. ' A\ 

\/r PAGE 

With Fielding's Amelia 83 

On receiving an Accojnt ihat his only Sister's ^ ''^^^^ 

Death was inevitable 84 

On seeing a Youth aiTectionately welcomed by 

his Sister ib 

The Same 85 

Pain 66 

Life ib. "0^ 

Lines on an Autumnal Evening .... 87 

The Rose 92 ^ 

The Kiss 93 

Happiness 91 f^^ 

Domestic Peace .93 

The Sigh 99 

Epitaph on an Infant 100 

Lines to a Beautiful Spring in a Village . . ib ^*/*\M^ 

Lines on a Friend who died in a Frenzy Fever ^ vfl"^ 

induced by Calumnious Reports . . 10) /Hi! 

Sonnet L My heart has thanked thee, Bowles ! IQi v> f*^ // 

Sonnet IL As late I lay in slumber's shadowy ('' !m 

' vale 105 ^ |^, 

Sonnet IIL Though roused by that dark vizir, ^v M \ 

-^ Riot rude . . . . . . . ib. ^"^h/' 

y Sonnet IV. When British Freedom for a hap- v^A "'- 

^^ pier land lOG -^ 

Sonnet V. It was some Spirit, Sheridan 1 107 \,, 

Sonnet VI. O what a loud and fearful shriek \\li}Ji^x^ 

/-^ -^M was there ..... ib. \ pr~\\ 




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Sonnet VII. As when 

strains are heard 

Sonnet VIII. Thou gentle look that did my 

soul beguile 

Sonnet IX. Pale roainer through the night ! 
Sonnet X. Sweet Mercy! .... 
Sonnet XI. Thou bleedest, my poor heart ! 
Sonnet XII. To the Author of the " Robbers.' 
Religious Musings. A Desultory Poem. Vv'rit 

ten on ths Christmas Eve^ of 1791 
Ode to the Departing Year .... 

France. An Ode 

Fears in Solitude. Written in April, 17G8, dur 

iiig tLe alarm of an Invasion 

Love 

Lewti, or the Circassian Love-chaunt 

The Picture, or the Lover's Resolution 

To an Unfortunate Woman, whom the Author 

had knov.-n in the days of her Innocence 
To a Young Lady on her Recovery from 

Fever . 



Something Childish, but very Natural. Written 

in Germany . 
Answer to a Child's Question 
A Child's Evening Prayer 
The Happy Husband 
Recollections of Lov( 
On Revisiting the Sea-shore, after a long ab 




1G9 
ill. 
110 
111 
112 

113 
131 

139 

114 

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153 
161 

160 



170 



171 
ib. 
17? 
173 
17) 




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Xll CONTENTS. 

PAGI 
sence, under strong medical recommen la- 

tion not to bathe 176 '^'^CT'N 

Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Chamouni 177 ^ 

On Observing a Blossom on the First of Feb- \' 

ruary, 1796 181 <^^ 

The -Eolian Harp. Composed at Clevedon, 

Somersetshire 182 ^\ 

To William Wordsworth. Composed on the ^'"^^^ 

night after his Recitation of a Poem on TT*^ 

the Growth of an Individual Mind . . 185 ^f ^ 

The Nightingale. A Conversation Poem. April, 

1798 190 

Ode to Tranquillity 195 

Sonnet. Composed on a Journey Homeward; 
the Author having received intelligence 
of the Birth of a Son, September 20, 1796 . 197 
Sonnet. To a Friend, who asked how I felt 

when the Nurse first presented my Infant (' 

to me 193 

The Virgin's Cradle Hymn. Copied from a 

Print of the Virgin, in a Roman Catholic //A^ 

Village in Germany 199 ^ 

Epitaph on an Infant 200 ''\ f 

Melancholy. A Fragment ib. -M^ 

Tell's Birth-place. Imitated from Stolberg 201 m1 

A Christmas Carol 203 yij «j^ 

Human Life. On the Denial of Immortality 205 WMe 

Separation 207 „ 




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CONTENTS. Xlll 
PAGE 

On taking Leave of , 1817 . . . .208 

The Pang more sharp than all ... . 209 

The Pains of Sleep 212 

Duty surviving Self-love, the only sure friend 

of Declining life. A Soliloquy . . . 214 

Phantom or Fact. A Dialogue in Verse . . 213 

Phantom 216 

Work without Hope. Lines composed 21st Feb- 
ruary, 1827 217 

Youth and Age 218 

Love and Friendship Opposite . . . .220 

Desire . . . ib. 

To a Lady offended by a sportive Observation 

that Women have no Souls . . . 221 

Why Love is Blind ib. 

The Garden of Boccaccio 222 

Charity in Thought 227 

Humility the Mother of Charity .... ib. 

On an Infant which died before Baptism . . 228 

Beareth all things.— 2 Cor. xiii. 7 . . . . ib. 

My Baptismal Birth-day 229 

Epitaph . 23C 

Lines composed in a Concert-room . . . ib. 

To a Lady with Falconer's " Shipwreck" . . 232 

Reflections on having left a Place of Retirement 234 

Imitated from the Welsh 237 

To an Infant 238 

Lines in Am Jver to a Letter from a Friend . 229 



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fA->. Lines written at liie King's Arms, Rofs, for- ^^\ 

^l/fy? inerly the House vif" The Man of Ross" it 14 ^/\\^? 

'^Sr\' Kisses .245 ^ 

^ The Wanderings of Cain 24t> 



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1 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



PART I. 

It is an ancient mariner,' 

And he stoppeth one of three, 

" By thy long gray beard and glittering eye. 

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 

" The bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 
And I am next of kin ; 
The guests are met, the feast is set: 
Mayst hear the merry din." 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 
" There was a ship," quoth he. 
" Hold ofT! unhand me, gray-beard loon ! 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye - — 
The wedding-guest stood still, 
And listens like a three-years' child : 
The Mariner hath his will. 



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THE ANCIENT MAKINER. 



Til -! weddin^-Huest sat on a stone : 
He cannot choose but hear ; 
Aiid thus spake on that ancient man 
Tic bright-eyed Mariner. 



The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the light-house top. 

The sun came up upon the left,^ 
Out of the sea came he ; 
And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 




Hi'gher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon — 

The wedding-guest here beat his breast. 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 

The bride hath paced into the ha',* 
Red as a rose is she ; 
Nodding their heads, before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

The wedding-guest he beat his breast. 
Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 



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THE ANCIF.NT MATxINER. 

And now the storm-blast came and he ^ 
Was tyrannous and strong ; 
He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts, and dipping prow, 

As who pursued with yell and blow 

Still treads the shadow of his foe, 

And forward bends his head, 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 

And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold : 
And ice, mast high, came floating by. 
As green as emerald. 

And through the drifts, the snowy clifts^ 
Did send a dismal sheen : 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
The ice was all between. 

The ice was here, the ice was there. 

The ice was all around : 

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled 

Like noises in a swound. 

At length did cross an albatross,' 
Thorough the fog it came ; 
As if it had been a Christian soul, 
We hailed it in God's name. 










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THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
And round and round it flew, 
The ice did spUt with a thunder-fit ; 
The hehnsman steered us through ! 

And a good south-wind sprung up behind ;^ 

The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play, 

Came to the mariners' hollo ! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine ; 

Whiles all the night, thro' fog smoke white 

Glimmered the white moon-shine. 

*' God save thee, ancient Mariner '.^ 
From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 
Why look' St thou so ?" — With my cross-bow 
I shot the albatross. 






PART II. 

The sun now rose upon the right : 
Out of the sea came he. 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 



ff^. 1^^I^^WS 



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THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

And the good south-wind still blew behind 
But no sweet bird did follow, 
Nor any day, for food or play, 
Came to the mariners' hollo ! 

And I had done a hellish thing,' 

And it would work 'em woe ; 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to blow; 

Ah, wretch ! said they, the bird to slay 

That made the breeze to blow ! 

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,^ 

The glorious sun uprist ; 

Then all averred, I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist, 

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, 

That bring the fog and mist. 




The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,^ 

The furrow followed free ; 

We were the first that ever burst 

Into that silent sea, 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,4 
'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea ! 



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THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody sun at noon, 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the moon. 

Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water, every where,^ 
And all the boards did shrink : 
Water, water, every where, 
Nor any drop to drink. 



The very deep did rot : O Christ I 
That ever this should be ; 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with leg3 
Upon the shmy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout, 
The death-fires danced at night ; 
The water, like a witch's oils. 
Burn green, and -blue, and white. 

And some in dreams assured were^ 
Of the spirit that plagued so ; 
Nine fathom deep he had followed U3 
From the land of mist and snow. 




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THE ANCIENT MABINER. 

And every tongue, through utter drought 
Was withered at the root ; 
Wc could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 

Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks'^ 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the albatross 
About my neck was hung. 



PART III. 

There past a weary time. Each throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye, 
A weary time ! a weary time ! 
How glazed each weary eye, 
When looking westward, I beheld* 
A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a Httle speck, 
And then it seemed a mist ; 
It moved, and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape I wist. 
And still :t neared and nearec •, 





24 



'HE ANCIENT MARINER. 



As ii'it dodgcvd a water-sprite, 

It plunged, and tacked, and veered. 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. 

We could not laugh nor wail ; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood ; 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
Agape they heard me call ; 
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin,^ 
And all at once their breath drew in, 
As they were drinking all. 

See ! see ! (I cried), she tacks no more !* 
Hither, to work us v/eal. 
Without a breeze, without a tide, 
She steadies with upright keel I 

The western wave was all a-flame. 
The day was well nigh done I 
Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright sun ; 
When that strange shape drove suddenly 
Betwixt us and the sun.^ 

And straight the sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven's mother send us grace !) 
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 



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THE ANCrSNT MARIKER. 

Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the sun, 
Like restless gossameres ? 

Are those her ribs through which the sun' 
Did peer, as through a grate ? 
And is that Woman all her crew ? 
Is that a Death ? and are there two? 
Is Death that Woman's mate ? 

Her lips were red, her looks wore free,'' 
Her locks were yellow as gold ; 
Her skin was as white as leprosyj 
The Night-Mare Life-in-Death was she. 
Who thicks men's blood with cold. 

The naked hulk alongside came, 8 

And the twain were casting dice ; 

" The game is done ! I've won, I've won !" 

Quoth she, and wliistles thrico. 

The sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out :^ 
At one stride comes the dark ; 
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 

We listened and looked sideways up ! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup., 

My hfe blood seemed to sip 1 

The stars were dim, and thick the night,'" 






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Ihe steersman's 

white, 
From the sails the dew did drip — 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned moon, with one bright star 
Within the nether tip. 

One after one, by the star-dogged moon,'^ 
Too quick for groan or sigh, 
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 
And cursed me with his eye. 

Four times fifty living men,'^ 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a hfeless lump. 
They dropped down one by one. 

The souls did from their bodies fly,''— 
They fled to bliss or woe ! 
And every soul it passed me by, 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow !** 




TEE ANCIENT MARINER. 

face by his lamp gleamee 






In W 




" I FEAR thee, ancient Mariner ! * 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 

And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 

As is the ribbed sea-sand ! 

I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 
Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest l^ 
This body dropt not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all, alone, 
Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

The merry men, so beautiful ! ^ 
And they all dead did He ; 
And a thousand thousand slimy things 
Lived on : and so did I. 

I looked upon the rotting sea, 
And drew my eyes away : 



♦ For the last two lines of this stanza, I am in- 
debted to Mr. Wordsworth. It was on a delightful 
walk from Nether Stowey to Diilverton, with him 
and his sister, in the autumn of 1797, that this poem 
was planned, and in part composed. 






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I looked upon the rotting deck, 
And there the dead men lay.^ 

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
But or ever a prayer had gush't, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 



I closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the balls like pulses beat. 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky 

Lay hke a load on my weary eye, 

And the dead were at my feet. 

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
Nor rot nor reek did they ; 
The look with which they looked on me * 
Had never passed away. 

An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high ; 

But oh ! more horrible than that 

Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 

The moving moon went up the sky,^ 
And no where did abide ; 
Softly she was going up, 
And a star or two beside. 









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Her beams bemockcd the sultry main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
The charmed water burnt alvvay 
A still and awful red. 

Beyond the shadow of the ship,"' 

I watched the water-snakes : 

They moved in tracks of shining white. 

And when they reared, the clhsh light 

Fell oft' in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire ; 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 

They coiled and swam : and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 

O happy livmg things ! no tongue ^ 
Their beauty might declare : 
A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
And I blessed them unaware :^ 
Sure my kind saint took pity on me 
And I blessed them unaware. 

The self-same moment I could pray : 
And from my neck so free 
The albatross fell off, and sunk '° 
Like lead into the sea. 






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PART V. 

Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
Beloved I'rom pole to pole ! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
That shd into my soul. 

The silly buckets on the deck,i 
That had so long remained, 
I dreamt that they were filled with dew, 
And when I awoke it rained. 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank ; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs, 
1 was so light — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 
And was a blessed ghost. 

And soon I heard a roaring wind ; 2 

It did not come a-near ; 
M:/^^ But with its sound it shook the sails, 
•/ '" That were so thin and sere. 

The upper air burst into life. 
And a hundred fire-flags sheen ; 






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THE ANCIENT MARINER. 31 

To and fro they were hurried about, 
4nd to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced betsveen. 

And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
And the rain poured down from one black cloud, 
The moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
The moon was at its side ; 
Like waters shot from some high crag, 
The lightning fell with never a jag, 
A river steep and wide. 

The loud wmd never reached the ship. 
Yet now the ship moved on ! 
Beneath the lightning and the moon^ 
The dead men gave a groan. 

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
It had been strange, even in a dream. 
To have seen these dead men rise. 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on, 

Yet never a breeze upblcw ; 

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do ; 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— 

We were a ghastly crew. 



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THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me knee to knee : 
The body and I pulled at one rope, 
But he said nought to me. 

" I fear thee, ancient Mariner !" 
Be calm, thou Wedding- Guest 
'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,* 
Which to their corses came again, 
But a troop of spirits blest : 

For when it dawned — they dropped their arms 
And clustered round the mast ; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths. 
And from their bodies passed. 

Around, around, flew each sweet sound 
Then darted to the sun ; 
Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed : now one by one. 

And now 'twas Uke all instruments, 

Now like a lonely flute, 

And now it is an angel's song, 

That makes the heavens be mute. 

It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise Uke of a hidden brook. 

In the leafy month of June, 

1 hat to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 



Sv-" 



^^' 

'H^. 



VI i 





h 



THE ANCIE.\T MARIWER. 

Till noon wc quietly sailed on, 
Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel nine fathom deep, ^ 
From the land of mist and snow, 
The spirit slid ; and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 
The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 



33 



The sun, right up above the mast, 
Had fixed her to the ocean : 
But in a minute she 'gan stir. 
With a short uneasy motion — 
Backwards and forwards half her length. 
With a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound ; 
It flung the blood into my head, 
And I fell down in a swound. 

How long in that same fit I lay, 6 
I have not to declare ; 
But ere my living life returned, 
I heard, and in my soul discerned 
Two voices in the air. 

3 



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34 



THE ANCIENT MAKINER. 



I 



" Is it he ?" quoth one, " Is this the man ? 
By him who died on cross, 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless albatross. 

*' The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow, 
He loved the bird that loved the man, 
Who shot him with his bow." 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew : 

Quoth he. " The man hath penance done, 

And penance more will do." 



Q\^«^ 



PART VI. 

FIRST VOICE. 

But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 
Thy soft response renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
What is the Ocean doing ? 

SECOND VOICE. 

Still as a slave before his lord, 
The Ocean hath no blast ; 
His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the moon is cast. 




,v^-^ 




THE ANCIENT MARINLR. 

If he may know which way to go, 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see ! how graciously 
She looketh down on him. 

FIRST VOICE. 

But why drives on that ship so fast, ' 
Without or wave or wind ? 

SECOND VOICE. 

The an- is cut away before, 
And closes from behind. 

Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
Or we shall be belated ! 
For slow and slow that sliip wall go. 
When the Mariner's trance is abated. 



I woke, and we were sailing on,^ 

As in a gentle weather ; 

'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ; 

The dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the deck. 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter ; 
All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
That in the moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
Had never passed away ; 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs. 
Nor turn them up to pray. 






36 



THE ANCIENT MARINER 



And now this spell was snapt 
I viewed the ocean green, 
And looked far forth, yet little saw 
Of what had else been seeh — 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 
And having once turned round, walks on 
And turns no more his head ; 
Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me. 
Nor sound nor motion made ; . 
Its path was not upon the sea 
In ripple or in shade. 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek, 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly, flew the ship, 
Y"et she sailed softly too ; 
Sweetly, sweetly, blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 

Oh! dream of joy ! is this, indeed,"* 
The Ught-house top I see ? 
Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 
Is this mine own countree ? 




Ma 



^j 



^% 




THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, 
And I with sobs did pray— 
O let me be awake my God ! 
Or let me sleep alway. 

The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 
So smoothly it was strewn ; 
And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
And the shadow of the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less 
That stands above the rock ; 
The moonlight steeped in silentness. 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent light,* 
Till rising from the same, 
Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
In crimson colours came. 

A little distance from the prow^ 
Those crimson shadows were ; 
I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! 

'^i Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
And by the holy rood, 
A man all light, a seraph-man, 
. On every corse there stood. 

vf 






THE ANCIENT MAKTNER. 

This seraph-band each waved his hand, 
It was a heavenly siglit ! 
They stood as signals to the land, 
Each one a lovely light ; 

This seraph-band each waved his hand, 
No voice did they impart — 
No voice ; but oh ! the silence sunk 
Like music on my heart. 

But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 
My head was turned perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast ; 
Dear Lord in Heaven, it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third— I heard his voice, 

It is the Hermit good ! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood, 

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 

The albatross's blood. 




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\ 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 



PART VII. 




This Hermit good lives in that wood ^ 
Which slopes down to the sea, 
How loudly his sweet voice he rears 1 
He loves to talk with mariners 
That come from a far countree. 

He kneels at morn, and noon, at eve — • 
He hath a cushion plump. 
It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump. 

The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk 
" Whj'-, this is strange, I trow 
Where are those lights so many and fair, 
That signal made but now ?" 

" Strange, by my faith !" the Hermit said 2— 

*' And they answered not our cheer ! 

The planks look warped ! and see these sails, 

How thin they are and sere ! 

I never saw aught hke to them, 

Unless perchance it were 

" Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-broolc along ; 
When the ivy- tod is heavy with snow, 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below 
That eats the she-wolf's young." 






Hi 



40 



%: 



t 






THE ANCIENT MARINEK. 



"Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — 
(The Pilot made reply) 
I am a-feared" — " Push on. push on !" 
Said the Hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 
And straight a sound was heard. 

Under the water it rumbled on ; 
Still louder and more dread ; 
It reached the slaip, it spUt the bay ; 
The ship went down like lead.^ 

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,* 

Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that has been seven days drowned 

My body lay afloat ; 

But swift as dreams myself I found 

Within the Pilot's boat. 

Upon the whirl, where sunk the ship, 
The boat spun round and round ; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked. 
And fell down in a fit ; 
The Holy Hermit raised his eyes, 
And prayed where he did sit. 



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.Q 



1 



%^ 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 




I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laughed loud and long, and all the while, 

His eyes went to and fro, 

" Ha 1 Ha !" quoth he, " full plain I see, 

The Devil knows how to row." 

And now, all in my own countree, 
I stood on the firm land ! 
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 

" O shrieve ine, shrieve me, holy man!" 

The Hermit crossed his brow, 

"Say quick," quoth he, " I bid thee say 

What manner of man art thou?" 

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 

With a woful agony, 

Which forced me to begin my tale ; 

And then it left me free. 

Since then at an uncertain hour, 

That agony returns : 

And till my ghastly tale is told, 

This heart within me burns. 

I pass like night from land to land : ^ 

I have strange power of speech ; 

That moment that his face I see, 

I know the man that must hear me ', 

To him my tale I teach. 



■tP 



^■^ ftp - 





THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
The wedding-guests are there : 
But in the garden bower the bride 
And bridemaids singing are : 
And hark the Httle vesper bell, 
Which biddeth me to prayer ! 

Oh Wedding- Guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide wide sea ; 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 

O sweeter than the marriage feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me, 
To walk together to the kirk, 
With a goodly company ! 

To walk together to the kirk. 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends. 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends. 

And youths and maidens gay ! 

Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell ' 

To thee, thou wedding-guest ! 

He prayeth well, who loveth well 

Both man, and bird, and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best. 

All things both great and small ; 

For the dear God that loveth us, 

He made and loveth all. . 




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sV 



^ 




THE ANCIENT MARINER. 

The Mariner whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 
Is gone : and now the wedding-guest 
Turns from tlie bridegroom's door. 

He went like one that hath been stumied, 
And is of sense forlorn : 
A sadder and a wiser man. 
He rose the morrow morn. 



^.\ 



J' 



THE ANCIENT MARINER. 




NOTES TO PART I, 

All ancient mariner meeteth three gallants bid* 
den to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one. 

2 The wedding-guest is spell-bound by the eye of 
the old seafaring man, and constrained to liear his 
tale. 

The mariner tells how the ship sailed southward 
with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the 
line. 

4 The wedding-guest heareth the bridal-music ; 
but the mariner continuetljuihis tale. 

5 The ship drawn by a storm toward the south 
pole. 

6 The land of ice and of fearful sounds, where no 
living thing was to be seen. 

7 Till a Great sea-bird, called the albatross, came 
through the snow-fog, and was received with great 
joy and hospitality. 

8 And lo ! the albatross proveth a bird of good 
omen, and followeth the ship as it returned north- 
ward through fq» and floating ice. 

9 The ancient mariner inhospitably killeth the 
pious bird of good omen. 



NOTES TO PART II. 

' His shipmates cry out against the ancient mari* 
ner for killing the bird of good luck 






'''::^^ 




THE ANCIEJJT MARINER 



* But when the fog cleared off, they justify the 
same, and thus make themselves accomplices in the 
crime. 

3 The fair breeze continues ; the ship enters the 
Pacific Ocean, and sails northward even till it reaches 
the line. 

4 The ship hath been suddenly becalmed. 

5 And the albatross begins to be avenged. 

6 A spirit bad followed them, one of the invisible 
inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor 
angels: concerning whom the learned Jew Jose- 
phus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael 
Psellus, may be consulted. They aVe very nume- 
rous, and there is no climate or element without one 
or more. 

7 The shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain 
throw the whole guilt on the Ancient Mariner ; in 
sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird around 
his neck. 






'>. 



NOTES TO PART III. 

1 The Ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the 
element afar off. 

2 At the nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a 
ship, and at a dear ransom he freelh his speech from 
the bonds of thirst. 

3 A flash of joy. 

•^ And horror follows ; for can it be a ship that 
comes onward without wind or tide 1 
5 It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship. 



If 



c 


1j 







THE ANCIENT MARINER 




r 



G And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the 
setting sun. The spectre woman and her deaih- 
mate, and no other, on board the skeleton ship. 

7 Like vessel like crew. 
Death, and Life-in-Death, have diced for the 
ship's crew ; she (the latter,) winneth the Ancient 
Mariner. 

No twilight within the courts of the sun. 

10 At the rising of the moon, 

•1 One after another, 

12 His ship-mates drop down dead ; 

13 But Life-in-Death begins her work on the An- 
cient Mariner. 



NOTES TO PART IV. 

1 The wedding-guest feareth that a spirit is talking 
to him ; 

'<2 But the Ancient Mariner assureth him of his 
bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible 
penance. 

3 He despiseth the creatures of the calm; 

4 And envieth that they should live, and so many 
lie dead. 

5 But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the 
dead men. 

6 In his loneliness and fixedness, he yearneth 
towards the journeying moon, and the stars that still 
sojourn yet still move onAvard, and every where the 
blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, 
and their native 'oimtrv, and their own natural 



ef^a 





/ 




THE AISfCIENT MARINER. 

homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords 
that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent 
joy at their arrival. 

7 By the lisfht of the mooji he beholdeth God's 
creatures of the great calm ; 

8 Their beauty and their happiness. 

9 He blessed them in his heart. 

10 The spell begins to break. 



NOTES TO PART V. 

1 By grace of the Holy Mother the Ancient Mariner 
is refreshed with rain. 

2 He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and 
commotions in the sky and the elements. 

3 The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, and 
the ship moves on. 

4 But not by the souls of the men, nor by demons 
of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of 
angelic spirits sent down by the invocation of the 
guardian saint. 

5 The lonesome spirit from the South Pole carries 
on the ship as far as the line, in obedience to the 
angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance. 

6 The Polar Spirit's fellow demons, the invisible 
inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong, 
and two of them relate, one to the other, that pe- 
nance long and heavy for the Ancient Mariner hath 
been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returncth 
southward. 



'f^^. % 



^,\ 






THE ANCIENT MARINER 




NOTES TO TART VI 



1 The Mariner hath been cast into a trance ; r)r 
the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive north- 
ward faster than human life can endure. 

2 The supernatural motion is retarded ; the Mari- 
ner awakes, and his penance begins anew. 

3 The curse is finally expi'ated ; 

4 And the Ancient Mariner beholdeth his native 
country. 

5 The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, 

6 And appear in their own forms of light. 




NOTES TO PAHT VII. 

1 The (Hermit of the Wood, 

2 Approacheth the ship with wonder. 

3 The ship suddenly sinketh. 

4 The Ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat. 

5 The Ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the 
H&rmit to shrieve him, and the penance of life falls 
on him : 

* And ever and anon throughout his future life an 
agony constraineth him to travel from land to land, 

' And to teach, by his own example, love and 
reverence to all things that God made and loveth. 



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49 



CHRISTABEL. 

PART I. 

•Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, 
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock ; 

Tu— whit ! Tu— whoo ! 

And hark, again I the crowing cock, 
How drowsily it crew. 

Sir Leoline, the baron rich, 

Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; 

From her kennel beneath the rock 

She maketh answer to the clock, 

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour ; 

Ever and aye, by shine and shower, 

SLxteen short howls, not over loud ; 

Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 

Is the night chilly and dark ? 
The night is chilly, but not dark. 
The thin gray cloud is spread on high, 
It covers but not hides the sky. 
The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
And yet she looks both small and dull. 



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50 



CHKISTABEL. 



The night is chill, the cloud is gray : 
'Tis a month before the month of May, 
And the spring comes slowly up this way. 

The lovely lady, Christabel, 

Whom her father loves so well, 

What makes her in the woods so late, 

A furlong from the castle gate ? 

She had dreams all yesternight 

Of her own betrothed knight ; 

And she in the midnight wood will pray 

For the weal of her lover that's far away. 

She stole along, she nothing spoke. 
The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 
And naught was green upon the oak. 
But moss and rarest mistletoe : 
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 
And in silence prayeth she. 

The lady sprang up suddenly, 

The lovely lady, Christabel ! 

It moaned as near, as near can be. 

But what it is, she cannot tell. — 

On the other side it seenrs to be, 

Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. 

The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ? 
There is not wind enough in the air 



'^^)^^ 

«>^'<»-' 

m 






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h 




^ 



CHRISTABEL. 

To move away the ringlet curl 

From the lovely lady's cheek — 

There is not wind enough to twirl 

The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 

That dances as often as dance it can, 

Hanging so light, and hanging so high, 

On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. 

Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! 
Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 
She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 
And stole to the other side of the oak. 
What sees she there ? 

There she sees a damsel bright, 
Dressed in a silken robe of white, 
That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 
The neck that made that white robe wan 
Her stately neck, and arms were bare 
Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were, 
And wildly glittered here and there 
The gems entangled in her hair. 
I guess 'twas frightful there to see 
A lady so richly clad as she — 
Beautiful exceedingly ! 

Mary mother, save me now ! 

(Said Christabel,) And who art thou ? 

The lady strange made answer meet 
And her voice was faint and sweet :- 






V «^r"i) 



CHRISTAEEL. 



Have pity on my sore distress, 
I scarce can speak for weariness : 
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear I 
Said Christabel, How earnest thou here ? 
And the lady, whose voice was faint and 

sweet, 
Did thus pursue her answer meet : — 

My sire is of a noble line. 

And my name is Geraldine : 

Five warriors seized me yestermorn,. 

Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 

They choked my cries with force and fright, 

And tied me on a palfrey white. 

The palfrey was as fleet as wind. 

And they rode furiously behind. 

They spurred amain, their steeds were white: 

And once we crossed the shade of night. 

As sure as heaven shall rescue me, 

I have no thought what men they be ; 

Nor do I know how long it is 

(For I have lain entranced I wis) 

Since one, the tallest of the five. 

Took me from the palfrey's back, 

A weary woman, scarce alive. 

Some muttered words his comrades spoke : 

He placed me underneath this oak ; 

He swore they would return with haste ; 

Whither they went I cannot tell — 







^/^ 



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(=-'41 



k 



CHRISTABEL. 

I thought T heard, some minutes past, 
Sounds as of a castle bell. 
Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she,) 
And help a wretched maid to flee. 

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand 

And comforted fair Geraldine : 

O well, bright dame ! may you command 

The service of Sir Leohne ; 

And gladly our stout chivalry 

Will he send forth and friends withal 

To guide and guard you safe and free 

Home to your noble father's hall. 



She rose : and forth with steps they ^ 

That strove to be, and were not, fast. 

Her gracious stars the lady blest, 

And thus spake on sv/eet Christabel: 

All our household are at rest, 

The hall is silent as the cell ; 

Sir Leoline is weak in health. 

And may not well awakened be, 

But we will move as if in stealth, 

And I beseech your courtesy, 

This night, to share your couch with me. 

They crossed the moat, and Christabel 
Took the key that fitted well; 



^*3i. 



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M 



CHRISTABEL, 




A little door she opened straight, 

All in the middle of the gate ; 

The gate that was ironed within and without, 

Where an army in battle array had marched (lut. 

The lady sank, belike through pain, 

x\nd Christabel with might and main 

Lifted her up, a weary weight, 

Over the threshold of the gate : 

Then the lady rose again, 

And moved, as she were not in pain. 

So free from danger, free from fear. 

They crossed the court : right glad they were. 

And Christabel devoutly cried 

To the lady by her side ; 

Praise we the Virgin all divine 

Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! 

Alas, alas ! said Geraldine, 

I cannot speak for weariness. 

So free from danger, free from fear, 

They crossed the court : right glad they were. 

Outside her kennel the mastiff old 
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
The mastiff old did not awake. 
Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
And what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
Never till now she uttered yell 
Beneath the eye of Christabel, 





f \^'^^ 





CHRISTABEL. 

Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch : 
But what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 

They passed the hall that echoes stil. , 

Pass as lightly as you will ! 

The brands were flat, the brands were dying 

Amid their owir white ashes lying ; 

But when the lady passed, there came 

A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 

And Christabel saw the lady's eye, 

And nothing else saw she thereby ' 

Save the boss of the shield of 

Which hung in a murky old 

O softly tread, said Christab„., 

My father seldom sleepeth well. 

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, 
And, jealous of the Hstening air. 
They steal their way from stair to stair, 
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, 
And now they pass the baron's room. 
And still as death with stifled breath ! 
And now have reached her chamber door; 
And now doth Geraldine press down 
The rushes of the chamber floor. 

The moon shines dim in the open air, 
And not a moonbeam enters here. 
But they without its light can see 
The chamber carved so curiously, 





% 




56 CHRISTABEL. 

Carved with figures strange and sweet, 

All made out of the carver's brain, 

For a lady's chamber meet : 

The lamp with twofold silver chain 

Is fastened to an angel's feet. 

The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; 

But Christabel the lamp will trim. 

She trimmed tlie lamp, and made it bright. 

And left it swinging to and fro, 

While Geraldine, in wretched plight, 

Sank down upon the floor below. 

weary lady, Geraldine, 

1 pray you, drink this cordial wine ! 
It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
My mother made it of wild flowers. 

And will your mother pity me, 
Who am a maiden most forlorn ? 
Christabel answered — Woe is me ! 
She died the hour that I was born. 
I have heard the gray-haired friar tell, 
How on her death-bed she did say, 
That she should hear the castle-bell 
Strike twelve upon my wedding day. 

mother dear ! that thou wert here ! 

1 would, said Geraldine, she were ! 

B At soon with altered voice, said she — • 
*' Off, wandering mother ! Peak and pine I 



\1l\^ 



-^^ 




CHEISTABEL 




k 



I have power to bid thee flee." 
Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine ? 
Why stares she with unsettled eye? 
Can she the bodiless dead espy ? 
And why with hollow voice cries she, 
" Off, woman off! this hour is mine — 
Though thou her guardian spirit be, 
Off, woman off! 'tis given to me." 

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, 
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 
Alas I said she, this ghastly ride — 
Dear lady ! it hath bewildered you ! 
The lady wiped her moist cold brow, 
And faintly said, "'tis over now !" 

Again the wild-flower wine she drank : 
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright. 
And from the floor whereon she sank, 
The lofty lady stood upright ; 
She was most beautiful to see, 
Lilce a lady ot a far countree. 

And thus the lofty lady spake — 
All they, who live in the upper sky, 
Do love you, holy Christabel ! 
And you love them, and for their sake 
And for the good which me befell, 
Even I in my degree will try. 
Fair maiden to requite you well. 



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^-, 



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CHRISTABEL. 



For now unrobe yourself; for I 
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie. 

Quoth Christabel, so let it be ! 
And as the lady bade, did she. 
Her gentle limbs did she undress, 
And lay down in her loveliness. 

But through her brain, of weal and woe 
So many thoughts moved to and fro, 
That vain it were her lids to close ; 
So half-way from the bed she rose, 
And on her elbow did rechne 
To look at the lady Geraldine. 

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed. 
And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 
Then drawing in her breath aloud 
Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
The cincture from beneath her breast: 
Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
Dropt to her feet, and full in view. 
Behold ! her bosom and half her side — » 
A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
O shield her ! shield sweet Christabel ! 

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 
Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
Deep from within she seems half-way 
To hft some weight with sick assay, 






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::t 






CHKISTABEL. 



59 



And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 
Then suddenly as one defied 
Collects herself in scorn and pride, 
And lay down by the maiden's side ! — 
And in her arms the maid she took, 

Ah well-a-day ! 
And with low voice and doleful look 
These words did say : 

In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, 
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel ! 
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to- 
morrow 
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow ; 
But vainly thou v/arrest. 

For this is alone in 
Thy power to declare, 

That in the dim forest 
Thou heard'st a low moaning, 
And found' St a bright lady, surpassingly fair : 
And didst bring her home with thee in love and 

in charity. 
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air. 



THE CONCLUSION TO PART I. 

It was a lovely sight to see 
The lady Christabel, when she 
Was praying at the old oak tree. 



9;. 

f! 



ff 



i° 




^f# 







CHRISTABEL. 



Arnid the jagged shadows 

Of mossy leafless boughs, 

Kneehng in the moonUght, 

To make her gentle vows ; 
Her slender palms together prest, 
Heavmg sometimes on her breast ; 
Her face resigned to bliss or bale — • 
Her face, oh call it fair not pale, 
And both blue eyes more bright than clear, 
Each about to have a tear. 



With open eyes (ah woe is me !) 
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, 
Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis. 
Dreaming that alone, which is — 
O sorrow and shame ! Can this be she, 
The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree? 
And lo ! the worker of these harms, 
That holds the maiden in her arms, 
Seems to slumber still and mild, 
As a mother with her child. 



ffs 



A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
O Geraldine ! since arms of thine 
Have been the lovely lady's prison. 
O Geraldine ! one hour was thine — 
Thou St had thy will ! By tairn and rill, 
The night-birds all that hour were still. 






II, 




■%} 



1^ 




CHRISTABEL. 



61 



But now they are jubilant anew, 

Fiom cliflfand tower, tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! 

Tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! from wood and fell ! 

And see ! the lady Christabel 

Gathers herself from out her trance ; 

Her Ihnbs relax, her countenance 

Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids 

Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds — 

Large tears that leave the lashes bright ! 

And oft the while she seems to smile 

As infants at a sudden light ! 

Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, 

Like a youthful hermitess, 

Beauteous in a wilderness. 

Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 

And, if she move unquietly. 

Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free, 

Comes back and tingles in her feet. 

No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. 

What if her guardian spirit 'twere ? 

What if she knew her mother near ? 

But this she knows, in joys and woes, 

That saints will aid if men will call : 

For the blue sky bends over all I 



'm 



62 



CHRISTABEL, 



PART II. 

Each matin bell, the baron saith, 
Knells us back to a world of death. 
These words Sir Leoline first said, 
When he rose and found his lady dead 
These words Sir Leoline will say, 
Many a morn to his dying day ! 

And hence the custom and law began, 
That still at dawn the sacristan, 
Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 
' Five and forty beads must tell 
Between each stroke — a warning knell. 
Which not a soul can choose but hear 
From Bralha Head to Wyndermere. 

Saith Bracy the bard, so let it knell ! 
And let the drowsy sacri&tan 
Still count as slowly as he can ! 
There is no lack of such, I ween, 
As well fill up the space between. 
In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, 
With ropes of rock and bells of air 
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent. 
Who all give back, one after t'other. 
The death- note to their living brother ; 






K5 




CHRISTABEL. 



63 



^i 



And oft too, by the knell offended, 
Just as their one ! two ! three ! is ended. 
The devil mocks the doleful tale 
With a meny peal from Borodale. 

The air is still ! through mist and cloud 
That merry peal comes ringing loud ; 
And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 
And rises lightly from the bed ; 
Puts on her silken vest^ments white, 
And tricks her hair in lovely plight. 
And nothing doubting of her spell 
Awakens the lady Christabel, 
" Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel? 
I trust that you have rested well.'*' 

And Christabel awoke and spied 
The same who lay down by her side — 
rather say, the same whom she 
Raised up beneath the old oak tree ! 
Nay, fairer yet ! and yet moi-e fair I 
For she behke hath drunken deep 
Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 
And while she spake, her looks, her air 
Such gentle thankfulness declare. 
That (so it seemed) her girded vests 
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
" Sure I have sinned !" said Christabel, 
" Now heaven be praised if all be well !*' 






> 



CnJ^ 



'"^ 




•% 



CHRISTABEL. 



And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, 
Did she the lofty lady greet 
With such perplexity of mind 
As dreams too lively leave behind. 

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed 
That He, who on the cross did groan. 
Might wash away her sins unknown. 
She forthmth led fair Geraldine 
To meet her sire, Sir Leoluie. 



The lovely maid and the lady tall 
Are pacing both into the hall. 
And pacing on through page and groom, 
Enter the baron's presence room. 

The baron rose, and while he prest 
His gentle daughter to his breast. 
With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
The lady Geraldine espies, 
And gave such welcome to the same, 
As might beseem so bright a dame ! 

But when he heard the lady's tale. 
And when she told her father's name, 
Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale. 
Murmuring o'er the name again. 
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ? 






-'*^^ 




CHRISTABEL. 

Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
But whispering tongues can poison truth 
And constancy hves in realms above ; 
And hfe is thorny; and youth is vain; 
And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain. 
And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
With Roland and Sir LeoUne. 
Each spake words of high disdain 
And insult to his heart's best brother : 
They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
But never either found another 
To free the hollow heart from paining — 
They stood aloof, the scars remaming, 
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder j 
A dreary sea now flows between ;— 
But neither keat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
The marks of that which once hath been. 
Sir Leohne, a moment's space, 
Stood gazing on the damsel's face: 
And the youthful lord of Tryermaine 
Came back upon his heart again. 
O then the baron forgot his age, 
His noble heart swelled high with rage ; 
He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side, 
He would proclaim it far and wide 
With trump and solemn heraldry, 








f^/^S 




66 CKRISTABEL. 

That they who thus had wronged the dame, 

Were base as spotted infamy ! 

" And if they dare deny the same, 

My herald shall appoint a week, 

And let the recreant traitors seek 

My tourney-court — that there and then 

I may dislodge their reptile souls 

From the bodies and forms of men I" 

He spake : his eye in hghtning rolls ! 

For the lady was ruthlessly seized : and he 

kenned 
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend ! 

And now the tears were on his face. 

And fondly in his arms he took 

Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace. 

Prolonging it wdth joyous look. 

Which when she viewed, a vision fell 

Upon the soul of Christabel, 

The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 

She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again, — 

fAh, woe is me ! Was it for thee. 

Thou gentle maid ! such sights to see ?) 

Again she saw that bosom old. 

Again she felt that bosom cold. 

And drew in her breath with a hissing Sound , 

Whereat the knight turned wildly round, 

And nothing svlw, but his own sweet maid 

With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 



e 



Li 



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c^^ 






CHRISTABEL. 

The touch, the sight, had passed away 
And in its stead that vision blest, 
Which comforted her after-rest. 
While in the lady's arms she lay, 
Had put a rapture in her breast, 
And on her hps and o'er her eyes 
Spread smiles like light ! 

With new surprise, 
" What ails then my beloved child?" 
The baron said — His daughter mild 
Made answer, " All will yet be well !" 
I ween, she had no power to tell 
Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
Had deemed her sure a thing divine. 
Such sorrow with such grace she blended, 
As if she feared, she had offended 
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 
And with such lowly tones she prayed, 
She might be sent without delay 
Home to her father's mansion. 

"Nay! 
Nay, by my soul !" said Leoline. 
" Ho ! Bracy, the bard, the charge be thine ! 
Go thou, with music sweet and loud. 
And take two steeds wth trappings proud, 
And take the youth whom thou lov'st best 










68 





^ 



CHRISTABEL. 



To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, 

And clothe you both in solemn vest, 

And over the mountains haste along 

Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, 

Detain you on the valley road. 

And when he has crossed the Irthing flood, 

My merry bard I he hastes, he hastes 

Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, 

And reaches soon that castle good 

Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes. 

*' Bard Bracy I Bard Bracy I your horses are 

fleet. 
Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet, 
More loud than your horses' echoing feet ! 
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, 
Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall ! 
Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free — 
Sir Leohne greets thee thus through me. 
He bids thee come without delay 
With all thy numerous array ; 
And take thy lovely daughter home : 
And he will meet thee on the way 
With all his numerous array 
White with their panting palfreys' foam : 
And by mine honour ! I will say. 
That I repent me of the day 
When I spake words of fierce disdain 
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ! — 



.^, 





^ 



4P 



/f'ls 




CHRISTABEL, 




— For since that evil hour hath flown. 
Many a summer's sun hath shone ; 
Yet ne'er found I a friend again 
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine 



The lady fell, and clasped his knees, 
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing; 
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, 
His gracious hail on all bestowing ! 
" Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, 
Are sweeter than my heart can tell ; 
Yet might I gain a boon of thee, 
This day my journey should not be, 
So strange a dream hath come to me ; 
That I had vowed with music loud 
To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 
Warned by a vision in my rest ! 
For in my sleep I saw that dove, 
That gentle bird whom thou dost love 
And call'st by thy own daughter's name- 
Sir Leohne ! I saw the same 
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, 
Among the green herbs in the forest alone 
Which when I saw and when I heard, 
I wondered what might ail the bird ; 
For nothing near it could I see. 
Save the grass and green herbs underneath the 
old tree. 






P 



U 







CHKISTABEL. 

"And in my dream methought I went 
To search out what might there be found ; 
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, 
That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
I went and peered, and could descry 
No cause for her distressful cry ; 
But yet for her dear lady's sake 
I stooped, methought, the dove to take, 
When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 
Coiled around its wings and neck, 
Green as the herbs on which it couched ; 
Close by the dove's its head it crouched; 
And with the dove it heaves and stirs, 
Swelling its neck as she swells hers ! 
I woke ; it was the midnight hour, 
The clock was echoing in the tower ; 
But though my slumber was gone by, 
This dream it would not pass away — 
It seems to live upon my eye ! 
And thence I vowed this self- same day, 
With music strong and saintly song 
To wander through the forest bare, 
Lest aught unholy loiter there." 



Thus Bracy said : the baron, the while, 
Half-listening heard him with a smile ; 
Then turned to lady Geraldine, 
His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 



% 




CHRISTABEL. 



71 



And said in courtly accents fine, 

" Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous doye, 

With arms more strong than harp or song. 

Thy sire and I will crush the snake !" 

He kissed her forehead as he spake, 

And Geraldine, in maiden wise. 

Casting down her large bright eyes, 

With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 

She turned her fi-om Sir Leoline ; 

Softly gathering up her train, 

That o'er her right arm fell again ; 

And folded her arms across her chest. 

And couched her head upon her breast, 

And looked askance at Christabel 

Jesu Maria, shield her well ! 

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, 
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, 
Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye. 
And with somewhat of mahce, and more of 

dread, 
At Christabel she looked askance ! — 
One moment — and the sight was fled! 
But Christabel in busy trance 
Stumbling on the unsteady ground 
Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound ; 
And Geraldine again turned round. 
And like a thing, that sought relief. 
Full of wonder and full of grief. 



<S^ 






Q) 






72 CHRISTABEL. 

She rolled her large bright eyes divine 
Wildly on Sir Leoline. 

The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone, 
She nothing sees — no sight but one ! 
The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 
I know not how, in fearful wise 
So deeply had she drunken in 
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, 
That all her features were resigned 
To this sole image in her mind ; 
And passively did imitate 
That look of dull and treacherous hate ! 
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, 
Still picturing that look askance 
With forced unconscious sympathy 

Full before her father's view • 

As far as such a look could be, 
In eyes so innocent and blue ! 
And when the trance was o'er, the maid 
Paused a while, and inly prayed : 
Then falling at the baron's feet, 
" By my mother's soul do I entreat 
That thou this woman send away !" 
She said : and more she could not say : 
For what she knew she could not tell, 
O'er-mastered by the mighty spell. 

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, 
Sir Leoline ? Thy only child 







t 





CHRISTABEL. 

Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, 
So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 
The same for whom thy lady died ! 
O by the pangs of her dear mother 
Think thou no evil of thy child ! 
For her, and thee, and for no other. 
She prayed the moment ere she died f 
Prayed that the babe for whom she died, 
Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride : 

That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled 
Sir Leoline ! 

And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, 
Her child and thine ? 

Within the baron's heart and brain 

If thoughts, Uke these, had any share, 

They only swelled his rage and pain, 

And did but work confusion there. 

His heart was cleft with pain and rage. 

His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild. 

Dishonoured thus in his old age ; 

Dishonoured by his only chid, 

And all his hospitality 

To the wrong' d daughter of his friend 

By more than woman's jealousy 

Brought thus to a disgraceful end — 

He rolled his eyes with stern regard 

Upon the gentle minstrel bard, 








74 



CHRISTABEL. 



And said in tones abrupt, austere — 

" Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here ? 

I bade thee hence !" The bard obeyed ;— 

And turning from his own sweet maid, 

The aged knight, Sir LeoUne, 

Led forth the lady Geraldine ! 



THE CONCLUSION TO PART II. 

A LITTLE child, a limber elf, 
Singing, dancing to itself, 
A fairy thing with red round cheeks, 
That always finds and never seeks, 
Makes such a vision to the sight 
As fills a father's eyes with light ; 
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
Upon his heart, that he at last 
Must needs express his love's excess 
With words of unmeant bitterness. 
Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 
Thoughts so all unlike each other ; 
To mutter and mock a broken charm. 
To dally with wrong that does no harm. 
Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 
At each wild word to feel within 
A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
And what, if in a world of sin 



n. 



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n 



6^ 



CHRISTABEL 



(O sorrow and shame should this be true !) 
Such giddiness of heart and brain 
Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 
So talks as it's most used to do. 




'\ 



^. 



^^ 



^^^-~ 



76 



GENEVIEVE. — SONNET. 



GENEVIEVE. 

Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve 

In Beauty's light you glide along : 

Your eye is like the star of eve, 

And sweet your voice, as seraph's song. 

Yet not your heavenly beauty gives 

This heart with passion soft to glow : 

Within your soul a voice there lives ! 

It bids you hear the tale of woe. 

When sinking low the sufferer wan 

Beholds no hand outstretcht to save, 

Fair, as the bosom of the swan 

That rises graceful o'er the wave, 

I've seen your breast with pity heave. 

And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve 



SONNET. 

TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON. 

Mild splendour of the various-vested night ! 
Mother of wildly-working visions ! hail ! 
I watch thy gliding, while with watery light 
Thy weak eye ghmmers through a fleecy veil. 






•%,. ^ 



-^k 4^ 



THE RAVEN. 




And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud 
Behuid the gathered blackness lost on high ; 
And when thou dartest from the wind-rent clo-ud 
Thy placid lightning o'er the awakened sky, 
Ah such is Hope ! as changeful and as fair ! 
Now dimly peering on the wistful sight ; 
Now hid behind the dragon-winged Despair : 
But soon emerging in her radiant might, 
She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care 
Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight. 






i^ 



THE RAVEN. 



A CHKISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOLBOY TO 
HIS LITTLE BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 



'fe 



Underneath an old oak tree 
There was of swine a huge company, 
That grunted as they crunched the mast : 
For that was ripe, and fell full fast. 
Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high : 
One acorn they left, and no more might you sjiy. 
Next came a raven that hked not such folly : 
He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melan- 
choly ! 
Blacker was he than blackest jet, 
Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet. 



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VL 



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^■'■^ 



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i8 



THE RAVEN. 



v^ 



tie picked up the acorn and buried it straight 
By the side of a river both deep and great. 
Where then did the raven go ? 
He went high and low, 
Over hill, over dale, did the black raven go. 
Many autumns, many springs 
Travelled he with wandering wings : 
Many summers, many winters — 
I can't tell half his adventures. 

At length he came back, and with him a she, 
And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. 
They built them a nest in the topmost bough, 
And young ones they had, and were happy 

enow. 
But soon came a woodman in leathern guise, 
His brow, hke a pent-house, hung over his 

eyes. 
He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke, 
But with many a hem ! and a sturdy stroke, 
At length he brought down the poor raven's 

own oak. 
His young ones were killed ; for they could not 

depart, 
And their mother did die of a broken heart. 
The boughs from the trunk the woodman did 

sever : 
And they floated down on the course of the 

river. 



\?P 



Mi 



f^K^: 





® 



.^3 



MUSIC. 79 

They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did 

strip, 
And with this tree and others they made a good 

ship. 
The ship, it was launched; but in sight of the 

land 
Such a storm there did rise as no ship could 

withstand. 
It bulged on a rock, and the waves rushed in 

fast: 
Round and round flew the raven, and cawed to 

the blast. 
He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls — 
See ! see ! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls ! 
Right glad was tlie raven, and off he went 
fleet. 
And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet, 
And he thank' d him again and again for this 
treat : 
They had taken his all, and revenge it was 
sweet ! 



V(fx 



MUSIC. 



Hence, soul-dissolving Harmony 
That lead' St th' oblivious soul astray- 

Though thou sphere-descended be — 
Hence away ! — 



r^. 



^2. 



\% 



y 
^ 




^J 




Thou mightier goddess, thou demand'st my lay 

Born when earth was seiz'd with ch-ohc ; 
Or as more sapient sages say, 
What time the legion diabolic 

Compelled their beings to enshrine 
In bodies vile of herded swine, 
Precipitate adown the steep 
With hideous rout were plunging in 
deep, 
And hog and devil mingling grunt and yell 

Seiz'd on the ear with horrible obtrusion ; — 
Then if aright old legendaries tell, 

Wert thou begot by Discord or Confusion ! 

What tho' no name's sonorous power 
Was given thee at thy natal hour ! — 
Yet oft I feel thy sacred might, 
While concords wing their distant flight. 
Such power inspires thy holy son 
Sable clerk of Tiverton. 
And oft where Otter sports bis stream, 
I hear thy banded ofFspnng scream. 
Thou Goddess ! thou inspir'st each ihroat . 
'Tis thou who pour'st the scritch-owl note ! 
Transported hear'st thy children all 
Scrape and blow and squeak and squall, 
And while old Otter's steeple rings, 
Clappest hoarse thy raven wings ! 

1790. 





81 



ABSENCE. 



L FAREWELL ODE ON QUITTING SCHOOL VCn 
JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBPaDGE. 

Where graced with many a classic spoil 

Cam rolls his reverend stream along, 

I haste to urge the learned toil 

That sternly chides my love-lorn song : 

Ah me ! too mindful of the days 

Illumed by Passion's orient rays, 

When Peace, and Cheerfulness, and Health 

Enrich me v>^ith the best of wealth. 

Ah fair delights ! that o'er my soul 
On Memory's wing, like shadows fly ! 
Ah flowers ! which Joy from Eden stole 
While Innocence stood smiling by ! — • 
But cease, fond heart ! this bootless moan; 
Those hours on rapid pinions flown 
Shall yet return, by Absence crowned, 
And scatter livelier roses round. 
The sun who ne'er remits his fires 
On heedless eyes may pour the day : 
The moon, that oft from heaven retires, 
Endears her renovated ray. 
What though she leave the sky unblest 
To mourn awhile in murky vest ? 
When she relumes her lovely light, 
We bless the wanderer of the night. 
6 



-^ 



<^ 



^r 



82 



SONNET. — TO THE MUS£. 



SONNET. 

ON THE SAME. 

Farewell parental scenes ! a sad farewell I 
To you my grateful heart still fondly clings, 
Though fluttering round on Fancy's burnish' d 

wings 
Her tales of future joy Hope loves to tell. 
Adieu, adieu ! ye much lov'd cloisters pale ! 
Ah ! would those happy days return again, 
When 'neath your arches, free from every stain, 
I heard of guilt and wonder' d at the tale ! 
Dear haunts ! where oft my simple lays I sang, 
Listening meanwhile the echoings of my feet, 
Lingering I quit you, with as great a pang. 
As when ere wliile, my weeping childhood, torn 
By early sorrow from my native seat. 
Mingled it tears with hers — my widow'd parent 

lorn. 



TO THE MUSE. 

Tho' no bold flights to thee belong ; 
And tho' thy lays with conscious fear, 
Shrink from Judgment's eye severe. 
Yet much I thank thee, spirit of my song! 
For, lovelj Muse ! thy sweet employ 



^A 



WITH FIELDING S A.MELIA. 



83 



Exalts my soul, refines my breast, 
Gives each pure pleasure keener zest, 
And softens sorn)w into pensive joy. 
From thee I learn' d the wish to bless, 
From thee to commune with my heart; 
From thee, dear Muse ! the gayer part, 
To laugh with pity at the crowds, that press 
Where Fashion flaunts her robes by Folly spun, 
Whose hues gay varying wanton in the sun. 

1789. 



WITH FIELDING'S AMELIA. 

Virtues and woes alike too great for man 

In the soft tale oft claim the useless sigh ; 
For vain the attempt to reahze the plan. 

On folly's wings must imitation fly. 
With other aim has Fielding here display'd 

Each social duty and each social care ; 
With just yet vivid colouring portray'd 

What every wife should be, what many are. 
And sure the parent of a race so sweet 
With double pleasure on the page shall dwell, 
Each scene with sympathising breast shall meet. 
While Reason still with smiles delights to tell 
Maternal hope, that her lov'd progeny 
In all but Sorrows shall Amelia's be I 



a^tr-'^A 



^^ 



^r^ 




ON SEEING A YOUTH, &C. 



ON RECEIVING AN ACCOUNT 

THAT HIS ONLY SISTER's DEATH WAS INEVITABLE. 

The tear which mourn' d a brother's fate scarce 

dry — 
Pain after pain, and woe succeeding woe — 
Is my heart destined for another blow ? 
O my sweet sister ! and must thou too die ? 
Ah! how has Disappointment pour'd the tear 
O'er infant Hope destroy'd by early frost ! 
How are ye gone, whom most my soul held 

dear! 
Scarce had I lov'd you, ere I mourn'd you lost ; 
Say, is this hollow eye — this heartless pain 
Fated to rove thro' hfe's wide cheerless plain — 
Nor father, brother, sister meets its ken — 
My woes, my joys unshar'd! Ah! long ere 

then 
On me thy icy dart, stern Death, be prov'd ; — 
Better to die, than live and not be lov'd ' 



M 



ON SEEING A YOUTH 

AFFECTIONATELY WELCOMED BY HIS SISTER. 

I TOO a sister had ! too cruel Death ! 

How sad remembrance bids my bosom heave 



p^.m. 




^, 






^ 



a 



THE SAME. 



85 



Tranquil her soul, as sleeping infant's breath ; 
Meek were her manners as a vernal Eve. 
Knowledge, that frequent hfis the bloated 

mind, 
Gave her the treasure of a lowly breast, 
And Wit to venom'd MaHce oft assign'd, 
Dwelt in her bosom in a turtle's nesL 
Cease, busy Memory ! cease to urge the dart ; 
Nor on my soul her love to me impress ! 
For oh I mourn in anguish— and my heart 
^Feels the keen pang, th' unutterable distress 
Yet wherefore grieve I that her sorrows cease| 
For life was misery, and the grave is peace. 



^> 



m 



THE SAME. 

I TOO a sister had, an only sister;— 

She lov'd me dearly and I doted on her ; 

To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows, 

(As a sick patient in a nurse's arms) 

And of the heart those hidden maladies 

That e'en from Friendship's eye will shrink 

asham'd. 
O ! I have wak'd at midnight and have wept 
Because she was not ■ 



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PAIN. LIFE. 



PAIN. 




^i 



Once could the morn's first beams, the health- 
ful breeze, 
All nature charm, and gay was every hour: — 
But ah ! not music's self, nor fragrant bower 
Can glad the trembhng sense of wan disease. 
Now that the frequent pangs my fame assail, 
Now that my sleepless eyes are sunk and dim, 
And seas of pain seem waving through each 

limb — ■ 

Ah what can all life's gilded scenes avail ? 
I view the crowd, whom youth and health 

inspire. 
Hear the loud laugh, and catch the sportive lay. 
Then sigh and think — I too could laugh and play 
And gaily sport it on the muse's lyre, 
Ere tyrant Pain has chas'd away delight, 
Ere the wild pulse throbb'd anguish thro' the 
night! 



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LIFE. 

As late I journied o'er the exter sive plain 
Where native Otter sports his scanty stream, 

Musing in torpid woe a sister's pain. 

The glorious prospect wok 3 me from the 
dream : 








LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING. 

Al every step it widen' d to my sight, 

Wood, meadow, verdant hill, and dreary 
steep. 

Following in quick succession of delight. 

Till all — at once — did my eye ravish' d sweep ! 

May this (I cried) my course through life por- 
tray ! 
New scenes of vidsdom may each step display, 
.And knowledge open as my days advance ! 
Till what time death shall pour the undarken'd 
ray, 
My eye shall dart thro' infinite expanse, 
And thought suspended lie in rapture's bhssfal 
trance. 



LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENINCx. 

O THOU wild Fancy, check thy wing ! No 

more 
Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds 

explore ! 
Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight 
Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of hght, 
Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends tho 

day. 
With western peasants hail the morning ray ! 



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LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING. 




Ah ! rather bid tho perished pleasures move, 
A shadowy train across the soul of Love ! 
O'er Disappointment's wintry desert fling, 
Each flov/er that wreathed the dewy locks of 

Spring, 
When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim 

bower 

She leapt, awakened by the pattering shower. 
Now sheds the sinking sun a deeper gleam. 
Aid, lovely sorceress! aid thy poet's dream! 
With faery wand O bid the maid arise, 
Chaste joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes ; 
As erst when froni the Muse's calm abode 
I came, with learning's meed not unbestowed : 
When as she twined a laurel I'ound my brow 
And met my kiss, and half returned my vow. 
O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrilled heart, 
And every nerve confessed the electric dart. 

dear Deceit ! I see the maiden rise. 
Chaste joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes ! 
When first the lark high soaring swells his 

throat, 
Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the loud note, 

1 trace her footsteps on the accustomed law^n, 
I mark her glancing mid the gleam of dawn. 
When the bent flower beneath the night dew 

weeps 
And on the la!;e the silver lustre 




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LINES ON AN AUTU.MNAL EVENING. 

Amid the paly radiance soft and sad 
She meets my lonely path in moon-beams clad. 
With her along the streamlet's brink I rove ; 
With her I list the warblings of the grove ; 
And seems in each low wind her voice to Hoat, 
Lone whispering pity in each soothing note ! 

SpintsofLove! ye heard her name 1 Obey 
The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair. 
Whether on clustering pinions ye are there, 
Where rich snows blossom on the myrtle trees, 
Or with fond languishment around my fair 
Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her hair ; 
Oh heed the spell, and hither wing your way, 
Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze ! 

Spirits ! to you the infant Maid was given 

Formed by the wondrous alchemy of heaven ! 

No fairer maid does love's wide empire know, 

No fairer maid e'er heaved the bosom's snow. 

A thousand Loves around her forehead fly, ; 

A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye ; 

Love lights her smile — in Joy's red nectar dips 

His myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips. 

She speaks! and hark that passion- warbled 
song — 

Still, Fancy ! still that voice, those notes pro- 
long. 



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90 



LIJN'ES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING. 



-J As sweet as when that voice with rapturous 

1 ialls 

Shall wake the softened echoes of heaven's 
halls ! 

O (have I sighed) were mine the wizard's rod, 
Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful god ! 
A flower-entangled arbour I would seem 
To shield my love from noontide's sultry beam : 
Or bloom a myrtle, from whose odorous boughs 
My love might weave gay garlands for her 

brows. 
When twilight stole across the fading vale, 
To fan my love I'd be the evening gale ; 
Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest, 
And flutter my faint pinions on her breast ! 
On seraph wing I'd float a dream by night, 
To soothe my love with shadows oiF delight : — 
Or soar aloft to be the spangled skies. 
And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes ! 

As when the savage, who his drowsy frame 
Had basked beneath the sun's unclouded flame. 
Awakes amid the troubles of the air,. 
The skiey deluge, and white lightning's glare — 
Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep, 
And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep : — 
So tossed by storms along life's wildering way, 
Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day, 



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LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENINO, 



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When by my native brook I wont to rove, 
While hope with kisses nursed the infant Love. 

Dear native brook ! Hke Peace, so placidly 
Smoothing through fertile fields thy current 

meek ! 
Dear native brook ! where first young Poesy 
Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream ; 
Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's 

cheek, 
As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream ! 
Dear native haunts ! where Virtue still is gay, 
Where Friendship's fix'd star sheds a mellowed 

ray, 
Where Love a crown of thornless roses wears, 
Where softened Sorrow smiles within her tears ; 
And Memory, with a vestal's chaste employ, 
Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy ; 
No more your sky- larks melting from the sight 
Shall thrill the attuned heart-string with de- 
light- 
No more shall deck your pensive pleasures 

sweet 
With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat. 
Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene 
Of wood, lull, dale, and sparkHng brook be- 
tween ! 
Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song, 
That soars on morning's wing your vales among. 




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THE ROSE. 

Scenes of my hope ! the achmg eye ye leave 
Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of 

eve ! 
Tearful and saddening vnth the saddened blaze 
Mine eye the gleam pursues yvkh wistful gaze : 
Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend. 
Till chill and damp the moonless night descend. 



THE ROSE. 



As late each flower that sweetest blows 
I plucked, the garden's pride ! 
Within the petals of a rose 
A sleeping Love I spied. 

Around his brows a beamy wreath 
Of many a lucent hue ; 
All purple glowed his cheek, beneath, 
Inebriate with dew. 

I softly seized the unguarded power, 
Nor scared his balmy rest: 
And placed him, caged within the flower, 
On spotless Sara's breast. 

But when unweeting of the guile 
Awoke the prisoner sweet, 
He struggled to escape awhile 
And stamped his faery feet. 



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Ah ! soon the soul- entrancing si^ 

Subdued the impatient boy ! 

He gazed ! he thrilled with deep delight 

Then clapped his wings for joy. 

" And !" he cried — "of magic kind 

What charms this throne endear ! 

Some other Love let Venus find — 

I'll fix my empire here." 



THE KISS. 

One kiss, dear maid ! I said and sighed- 
Your scorn the little boon denied. 
Ah why refuse the blameless bhss ? 
Can danger lurk within a kiss ? 

Yon viewless wanderer of the vale, 
The spirit of the western gale. 
At morning's break, at evening's close 
Inhales the sweetness of the rose. 
And hovers o'er the uninjured bloom 
Sighing back the soft perfume. 
Vigour to the Zephyr's wing 
Her nectar-breathing kisses fling ; 
And he the glitter of the dew 
Scatters on the rose's hue. 
Bashful lo ! she bends her head. 
And darts a blush of deeper red ! 




m.-A 





HAPPINESS. 

Too well those lovely lips disclose 
The triumphs of the opening rose ; 
O fair ! O graceful ! bid them prove 
As passive to the breath of Love. 
In tender accents, faint and low, 
Well-pleased I hear the whispered ' 
The whispered " No" — how little meant 
Sweet falsehood that endears consent ! 
For on those lovely lips the while 
Dawns the soft relenting smile, 
And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy 
The gentle violence of Joy. 



No! 



HAPPINESS. 

On wide, or narrow scale shall man 
Most happily describe Hfe's plan ? 
Say, shall he bloom and wither there. 
Where first his infant buds appear: 
Or upwards dart with soaring force. 
And tempt some more ambitious course ? 

Obedient now to Hope's command, 
I bid each humble wish expand, 
And fair and bright hfe's prospects seem, 
While Hope displays her cheering beam, 
And Fancy's vivid colourings stream. 
While Emulation stands me nigh 
The goddess of the eager eye. 



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HAPPINESS. 

With foot advanc'd and anxious heart 
Now for the fancied goal I start: — 
Ah ! why will Reason intervene 
Me and my promised joys between ! 
She stops my course, she chains my speed, 
While thus her forceful words proceed. 
" Ah ! listen, youth, ere yet too late, 
What evils on thy course may wait ! 
To bow the head, to l>end the knee, 
A minion of Servility, 
At low Pride's frequent frowns to sigh. 
And watch the glance in Folly's eye ; 
To toil intense, yet toil in vain. 
And feel with what a hollow pain 
Pale Disappointment hangs her head 
O'er darlmg expectation dead ! 

" The scene is changed and Fortune's galo 
Shall belly out each prosperous sail. 
Yet sudden wealth full well I know 
Did never happiness bestow. 
That wealth, to which we were not bom 
Dooms us to sorrow or to scorn. 
Behold yon flock which long had trod 
O'er the short grass of Devon's sod. 
To Lincoln's rank rich meads transferr'd, 
And in their fate thy own be fear'd ; 
Through every hmb contagions fly, 
"Deforn 'd and chok'd they burst and die. 




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HAPriA'ESS. 



' When Luxury opens wide her arms, 
And smihng woos thee to those charms, 
Whose fascination thousands own. 
Shall thy brows wear the stoic frown? 
And when her goblet she extends 
Which madd'ning myriads press around. 
What power divine thy soul befriends 
That thou shouldst dash it to the ground ? — 
No, thou shalt drink, and thou shalt know 
Her transient bliss, her lasting woe. 
Her maniac joys, that know no measure, 
And riot rude and painted pleasure ; — ■ 
Till (sad reverse !) the enchantress vile 
To frowns converts her magic smile ; 
Her train impatient to destroy. 
Observe her frown with gloomy joy ; 
On thee whh harpy fangs they seize 
The hideous offspring of Disease, 
SwoU'n Dropsy, ignorant of rest, 
And Fever garb'd in scarlet vest. 
Consumption drivmg the quick hearse. 
And Gout that howls the frequent curse, 
With Apoplex, of heavy head 
That surely aims his dart of lead. 

" But say, life's joys unmix'd were given 
To thee some favourite of heaven : 
Within, without, tho' all were health — 
Yet what e'en thus are fame, power, wealth, 




HAPPINESS 

But sounds that variously express, 
What's thine already^ — happiness ! 
'Tis thine the converse deep to hold 
With all the famous sons of old; 
And thine the happy waking dream 
While Hope pursues some favourite theme, 
As oft when night o'er heaven is spread, 
Round this maternal seat you tread, 
Where far from splendour, far from riot, 
In silence wrapt sleeps careless quiet. 
Tis thine with fancy oft to talk, 
And thine the peaceful evening walk : 
And what to thee the sweetest are — 
The setting sun, the evening star — 
The tints which live along the sky, 
And moon that meets thy raptur'd eye. 
Where oft the tear shall grateful start, 
Dear silent pleasures of the heart ! 
Ah ! being blest, for heaven shall lend 
To share thy simple joys a friend ! 
Ah! doubly blest, if Love supply 
His influence to complete thy joy, 
If chance some lovely maid thou find 
To read thy visage in thy mind, 

" One blessing more demands thy CTir«» 
Once more to heaven address the pray* 
For humble independence pray 
The guardian genius of thy way ; 
7 



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98 



DOMESTIC PEACE, 



Whom (sages say) in days of yore 
Meek competence to wisdom bore, 
So shall thy little vessel glide 
With a fair breeze adown the tide, 
And Hope, if e'er thou 'ginst to sorrow 
Remind thee of some fair to-morrow, 
Till death shall close thy tranquil eye 
While faith proclaims " thou shalt not die !' 



DOMESTIC PEACE. 

Tell me, on what holy ground 
May Domestic peace be found — 
Halcyon daughter of the skies ! 
Far on fearful wings she flies. 
From the pomp of sceptered state 
From the rebel's noisy hate. 
In a cottaged vale she dwells 
Listening to the sabbath bells ! 
Still around her steps are seen 
Spotless Honour's meeker mien, 
Love, the sire of pleasing fears. 
Sorrow smiling through her tears, 
\nd conscious of the past employ 
Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 




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THE SIGH 



When Youth bis faery reign began 
Ere sorrow had proclaimed me man ; 
While Peace the present hour beguiled 
And all the lovely prospect smiled ; 
Then Mary ! 'mid my lightsome glee 
I heav'd the painless sigh for thee. 

And when, along the waves of woe, 
My harassed heart was doomed to know 
The frantic burst of outrage keen. 
And the slow pang that gnaws unseen : 
Then shipwrecked on life's stormy sea 
I heaved an anguished sigh for thee ! 

But soon Reflection's power imprest 
A stiller sadness on my breast ; 
And sickly hope with waning eye 
Was well content to droop and die : 
I yielded to the stern decree. 
Yet heaved a languid sigh for thee I 

And though in distant climes to roam, 
A wanderer from my native home, 
I fain would soothe the sense of care, 
And lull to sleep the joys that were, 
Thy image may not banished be- 
Still, Mary ! still I sigh for thee. 
June, 1794. 




THE SIGH. 



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100 LINES TO A BEAtTIFUL SPRING. 



EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 

Eke sin could blight or sorrow fade, 
Death came with friendly care ; 

The opening bud to heaven conveyed, 
And bade it blossom there. 



LINES 

TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE. 

Once more, sweet stream I with slow foot wan^ 

dering near, 
I bless thy milky waters cold and clear. 
Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours, 
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers 
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn) 
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn. 
For not through pathless grove with murmur 

rude 
Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Sohtude ; 
Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to v;ell, 
The hermh-fountain of some dripping cell ! 
Pride of the vale ! thy useful streams supply 
The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh. 
The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks 
With infant uproar and soul- soothing pranks 



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LINES ON A FRIEND. 

Released from school, their little hearts at rest, 
Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast. 
The rustic here at eve with pensive look 
Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook. 
Or starting pauses with hope-mingled dread 
To list the much-loved maid's accustomed 

tread ; 
She vainly mindful of her dame's command, 
Loiters, the long-filled pitcher in her hand. 

Unboastful stream ! thy fount whh pebbled falls 
The faded form of past delight recalls. 
What time the morning sun of Hope arose, 
And all was joy ; save when another's woes 
A transient gloom upon my soul imprest. 
Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast. 
Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon, 
Or silvery stole beneath the pensive moon : 
Ah ! now it works rude brakes and thorns 

among, 
Or o'er the rough rock bursts ana foams along 




LINES ON A FRIEND 

WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER INDUCED BY 
CALUMNIOUS REPORTS. 

Edmund ! thy grave with aching eye I scan, 
^ And inly groan for heaven's poor outcast — man ! 



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. 102 


LINES ON A FRIEND. 





' Tis tempest all or gloom in early youth 

If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of Truth 

We force to start amid her feigned caress 

Vice, siren-hag ! in native ugliness; 

A brother's fate will haply rouse a tear, 

And on we go in heaviness and fear I 

But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower 

Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour, 

The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted 

ground. 
And mingled forms of misery rise around : 
Heart- fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast, 
That courts the future woe to hide the past ; 
Remorse, the poisoned arrow in his side. 
And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close allied: 
Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping pain. 
Darts her hot lightning flash athwart the brain. 
Rest, injur' d shade ! Shall Slander squatting 

near 
Spit her cold venom in a dead man's ear ? 
'Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow 
In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe ; 
Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies. 
The zoneless Cares, and smiUng Courtesies. 
Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew, 
A.nd in thy heart they withered ! Such chill dew 
Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed ' 
And Vanity her filmy net-work spread, 






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LINES ON A FRIENU. 




With eye that rolled around in asking gaze. 
And tongue that trafficked in the trade of praise. 
Thy follies such ! the hard world marked them 

well ! 
Were they more wise, the proud who never fell '. 
Rest, injured shade ! the poor man's grateful 

prayer 
On heaven- ward wing thy wounded soul shall 

bear. 
As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass. 
And sit me down upon its recent grass, 
With introverted eye I contemplate 
Similitude of soul, perhaps of— fate ; 
To me hath heaven with bounteous hand assigned 
Energic reason and a shaping mind, 
The daring ken of truth, the patriot's part. 
And pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart. 
Sloth-jaundiced all ! and from my graspless hand 
Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour- 
glass sand. 
I weep, yet stoop not ! the faint anguish flows, 
A dreamy pang in morning's feverous doze. 

Is this piled earth our being's passless mound ? 
Tell me, cold grave! is death with poppies 

crown"* d ? 
Tired sentinel ! mid fitful starts I nod. 
And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a 

clod! 



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104 SONNET. 

SONNET I. 

" Content, as random Fancies might inspire, 
If his weak harp at times or lonely lyre 
He struck with desultory hand, and drew 
Some softened tones to Nature not untrue." 

Bowles. 

My heart has thank' d thee, Bowles ! for those 

soft strains 
Whose sadness soothes me, Uke the murmuring 
Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring! 
For hence not callous to the mourner's pains 
Through youth's gay prime and thornless paths 

I went : 
And when the mightier throes of mind began, 
And drove me forth, a thought-bewildered man, 
Their mild and manliest melancholy lent 
A mingled charm, such as the pang consigned 
To slumber, though the big tear it renewed ; 
Bidding a strange mysterious pleasure brood 
Over the wavy and tumultuous mind. 
As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep 
Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep. 



^ 




SONNET II 



As late I lay in slumber's shadowy va.e, 
With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise, 
I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise : 
She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal 

gale— 
" Great Son of Genius ! sweet to me thy name, 
Ere in an evil hour with ahered voice 
Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice 
Blasting with wizard spell my laureled fame. 
Yet never Burke ! thou drank'st Corruption's 

bowl ! 

Thee stormy Pity and the cherished lure 
Of Pomp, and proud precipitance of soul 
Wildered with meteor fires. Ah spirit pure ! 
That error's mist had left thy purged eye : 
So might I clasp thee with a mother's joy !" 




SONNET III. 

Though roused by that dark vizir, Riot rude 
Have driven our Priestly o'er the ocean swell ; 
Though Superstition and her wolfish brood 
Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell; 
Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell*' 
For lo ! Rehgion at his strong behest 



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106 SONNET. 

Starts from mild anger from the Papal spell, 
And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest, 
Her mitred state and cmnbrous pomp unholy ; 
And Justice wakes to bid the oppressor wail 
Insulting aye the wrongs of Patient Folly ; 
And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won 
Meek Nature slowly lifts her matron- veil 
To smile with fondness on her gazing son ! 



SONNET IV. 

When British Freedom for a happier land 
Spread her broad wings, that fluttered with 

affright, 
Erskine ! thy voice she heard, and paused her 

flight 
Subhme of hope ! For dreadless thou didst stand 
(Thy censer glowing with the hallowed flame) 
A hireless priest before the insulted shrine 
And at her altar pour the stream divine 
Of unmatched eloquence. Therefore thy name 
Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast 
With blessings heavenward breathed. And 

when the doom 
Of nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb 
Thy light shall shine : as sunk beneath the west 
Though the great summer sun eludes our gaze, 
Still burns wide heaven with his distended blaze. 



M. 



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107 



SONNET V. 



It was some Spirit, Sheridan.! that breathed 
O'er thy young mind such wildly various power ! 
My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour, 
Thy temples with Hymettian flosverets wreathed: 
And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier 
Sad jiiusk trembled through Vauclusa's glade ; 
Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn serenade 
That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening 

ear. 
Now patriot rage and indignation high 
Swell the full tones ! And now thine eye-beams 

dance. 
Meanings of scorn and wit's quaint revelry ! 
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance 
The aposiate by the brainless rout adored, 
As erst that elder fiend beneath great Michael's 

sword. 



SONNET VI. 

O WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there, 
As though a thousand souls one death groan 

poured ! 
Ah me ! they saw beneath a hireling's sword 
Theur Kosciusko fall ! Through the swart air 



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(As pauses the tired Cossac's barbarous yell 
Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale 
Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell 
The dirge of murdered Hope ! while Freedom 

pale 
Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, 
As if from eldest time some spirit meek 
Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear 
That ever on a patriot's furrowed cheek 
Fit channel found, and she had drained the bowl 
In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul ! 



SONNET Vn. 

As when far off the warbled strains are heard 
That soar on Morning's wing the vales among, 
Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird 
Swells the full chorus with a generous song : 
He bathes no pinion in the dewy light, 
No father's joy, no lover's bliss he shares. 
Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight ; 
His fellows' freedom soothes the captive's cares ! 
Thou Fayette ! who didst wake with starting 

voice 
Life's better sun from that long wintry night, 
Thus in thy country's triumphs shalt rejoice. 
And mock with raptures high the dungeon's 

might : 




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For lo! the morning struggles into day, 
^k^fL ? '^"^ slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from 
'jT^lr^ the ray ! 



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SONNET VIIL 

Thou gentle look, that didst my soul beguile. 
Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond 

dream 
Revisit my sad heart, auspicious smile ! 
As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam : 
What time, in sickly mood, at parting day 
I lay me down and think of happier years ; 
Of joys, that glimmered in hope's twilight ray, 
Then left me darkhng in a vale of tears. 
O pleasant days of hope — for ever gone ! — 
Could I recall you !— But that thought is vain, 
Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone 
To lure the fleet- winged travellers back again : 
Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam 
Like the bright rainbow on a willowy stream. 



SONNET IX. 

Pale roamer through the night! thou poor 

forlorn ! 
Remorse that man on his death-bed possess, 



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110 SONNET. 

Who in the credulous hour of lenderness 
Betrayed, then cast thee forth to want and 

scorn ! • 
The world is pitiless: the chaste one's prid 
Mimic of virtue scowls on thy distress : 
Thy loves and they, that envied thee, deride : 
And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness ! 
O ! I could weep to think, that there should be 
Cold-bosomed lewd ones, who endure to place 
Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery, 
And force from Famine the caress of Love; 
May He shed healing on the sore disgrace, 
He, the great Comforter that rules above ! 



SONNET X. 

Sweet Mercy ! how my very heart has bled 
To see thee, poor old man! and thy gray hairs 
Hoar with the snowy blast : while no one cares 
To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. 
My father ! throw away this tattered vest 
That mocks thy shivering I take my garment — 

use 
A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen 

dews 
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy 

breast. 



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SONNET. 

My Sara too shall tend thee, like a child : 
And thou shalt talk, in our fireside's recess, 
Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness. 
He said not so, the Galilean mild, 
Who met the lazars turned from rich men' 

doors, 
And called them friends, and healed their 

noisome sores ! 




SONNET XL 

T Hou bleedest, my poor "heart ! and thy distress 
lleasoning I ponder \\ith a scornful smile, 
And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the 

w^hile 
Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. 
Why didst thou Hsten to Hope's whisper bland ? 
Or, hstening, why forget the healing tale. 
When Jealousy with feverous fancies pale 
Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand ? 
P'aint was that Hope, and rayless!— Yet 'twas 

fair, 
And soothed with many a dream the hour of 

rest: 

Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most 

opprest, 
And nursed it with an agony of care, 



^:- 









c^ ^ 



Even as a mother her sweet mfant heir 
That wan and sickly droops upon her breast ! 



SONNET XII. 



TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ROBBERS. 




Schiller ! that hour I would have wished to 

die, 
If through the shuddering midnight I had sent 
From the dark dungeon of the tower time-rent 
That fearful voice, a famished father's cry — 
Lest in some after moment aught more mean 
Might stamp me mortal ! A triumphant shout 
Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout 
Diminished shrunk from the more withering 



Ah ! bard tremendous in sublimity ! 
Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood 
Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye 
Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood ! 
Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood : 
Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy ! 



^. 



h^ 







KELICJIOUS MUSINGS 



RELIGIOUS MUSINGS; 

A DESULTORY POEM, WRITTEN ON THE CHRISTMAS 
EVE OF 1794. 

This is the time, when most divine to hear, 
The voice of adoration rouses me, 
As with a cherub's trump : and high upborne, 
Yea, mingling with the choir, I seem to view 
The vision of the heavenly multitude, 
"Who hymned the song of peace o'er Bethle- 
hem's fields ! 
Yet thou more bright than all the angel blaze, 
That harbinger' d thy birth, Thou, Man of 

Woes ! 
Despised Ga-lilean ! For the great 
Invisible (by symbols only seen) 
With a peculiar and surpassing hght 
Shines from the visage of the oppressed good 

man, 
When heedless of himself the scourged Saint 
Mourns for the oppressor. Fair the vernal 

mead, 
Fair the high grove, the sea, the sun, the stars; 
True impress each of their creating Sire ! 
Yet nor high grove, »or many-coloured mead, 
Nor the green Ocean with his thousand isles, 
Nor the starred azure, nor the sovran sun. 
E'er with such majesty of portraiture 
8 







114 



RELIGIOUS MUSII-JGS. 



Imaged the supreme beauty uncreate, 
As thou, meek Saviour ! at the fearful hour 
When thy insulted anguish winged the prayer 
Harped by archangels, when they sing of mercy ! 
Which when the Almighty heard from forth his 

throne 
Diviner hght filled heaven with ecstasy ! 
Heaven's hymnings paused : and hell her yawn- 
ing mouth 
Closed a brief moment. 

Lovely was the death 
Of him whose life was Love ! Holy with power 
He on the thought-benighted skeptic beamed 
Manifest Godhead, melting into day 
What floating mists of dark idolatry 
Broke and misshaped the omnipresent Sire : 
And first by fear uncharmed the drowsed soul, 
Till of its nobler nature it 'gan feel 
Dim recollections ; and thence soared to hope 
Strong to believe whate'er of mystic good 
The Eternal dooms for his immortal sons. 
From hope and firmer faith to perfect love 
Attracted and absorbed : and centred there 
God only to behold, and know, and feel. 
Till by exclusive consciousness of God 
All self-annihilated it shall make 
God its identity : God all in all ! 
We and our Father one ! 








RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 

And blessed are they. 
Who in this fleshly world, the elect cf heaven. 
Their strong eye darting through the deeds of 

men, 
Adore with steadfast unpresuming gaze 
Him Nature's essence, mind, and energy ! 
And gazing, trembhng, patiently ascend 
Treading beneath their feet all visible things 
As steps, that upward to their Father's throne 
Lead gradual— else nor glorified nor loved. 
They nor contempt embosom nor revenge ; 
For they dare know of what may seem deform 
The Supreme Fair sole operant : in whose sight 
All things are pure, his strong controlling love" 
Ahke from all educing perfect good. 
Their's too celestial courage, inly armed — 
Dwarfing earth's giant brood, what time they 

muse 
On their great Father, great beyond compare ! 
And marching onwards view high o'er their 

heads 
His waving banners of Omnipotence. 

Who the Creator love, created night 

Dread not : within their tents no terrors walk. 

For they are holy things before the Lord 

Aye unprofaned, though earth should lea^^-ue 

with hell ; 
God's altar grasping with an eager hand 



% 




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116 



RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 



Fear, (he wild visaged, pale, eye-starting wretch, 
Sure-refuged hears his hot pursuing fiends 
Yell at vain distance. Soon refreshed from 

heaven 
He calms the throb and tempest of his heart. 
His countenance settles ; a soft solemn bUss 
Swims in his eye — his swimming eye upraised : 
And Faith's whole armour gUtters on his hmbs '. 
And thus transfigured with a dreadless awe, 
A solemn hush of souls, meek he beholds 
All things of terrible seeming : yea, unmoved 
Views e'en the immitigable ministers 
That shower down vengeance on these latter 

days. 
For kindling with intenser Deity 
From the celestial mercy -seat they come. 
And at the renovating wells of love 
Have filled their vials with salutary wrath, 
To sickly nature more medicinal 
Than what soft balm the weeping good man 

pours 
Into the lone despoiled traveller's wounds ! 

Thus from the elect, regenerate through faith, 
Pass the dark passions and what thirsty cares 
Drink up the spirit, and the dim regards 
Self-centre. Lo they vanish ! or acquire 
New names, new features — by supernal grace 
Enrobed with light, and naturahzed in haaven. 






^^ 




RELIialOUS MUSINGS 



117 



As when a shepherd on a vernal morn 
Through some thick fog creeps timorous witJ* 

slow foot, 
DarkUng he fixes on the immediate road 
His downward eye : all else of fairest kind 
Hid or deformed. But lo ! the bursting sun 
Touched by the enchantment of that sudden 

beam 
Straight the black vapour melteth, and in globes 
Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree ; 
On every leaf, on every blade it hangs ! 
Dance glad the new-born interminghng rays, 
And wide around the landscape streams with 

glory ! 

There is one Mind, one om_nipresent Mind, 
Omnific. His most holy name is Love. 
Truth of subhming import ! with the which 
Who feeds and saturates his constant soul, 
He from his small particular orbit flies 
With blest outslarting ! From himself he flies. 
Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze 
Views all creation ; and he loves it all," 
And blesses it, and calls it very good ! 
This is indeed to dwell with the m.ost High ! 
Cherubs and rapture-trembling seraphim^ 
Can press no nearer to the Almighty's throne. 
But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts 
Unfeehng of our miiversal Sire, 






P(^, 






■H: 



C\ 




118 



KELIGIOXJS MUSINGS. 



'iV 



I 



And that in his vast family no Cain 
Injures uninjured (in her besi-aimed blow 
Victorious murder a bhnd suicide) 
Haply for this some younger angel now 
2jOoks down on human nature: and, behold ! 
A sea of blood bestrewed with wrecks, where 

mad 
Embattling interests on each other rush 
With unheimed rage ! 

'Tis the subhmc of man, 
Our noontide majesty, to know ourselves 
Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole ! 
This fraternizes man, this constitutes 
Our charities and bearings. But 'tis God 
Diffused through all, that doth make all one 

whole ; 
This the worst superstition, him except 
Aught to desire, Supreme Reahty ! 
The plenitude and permanence of bliss ! 
O fiends of superstition ! not that oft 
The erring priest hath stained with brother's 

blood 
Your grisly idols, not for this 'tiy wrath 
Thunder against you from the Holy One ! 
But o'er some plane that steameth to the sun, 
Peopled with death ; or where more hideou*' 

trade 



f;?v^( 



^ 












PwELIGlOUS MUSIKGS. 

Loud- laughing packs his bales of human an- 
guish ; 
I will raise up a mourning, O ye fiends I 
And curse your spell-s that film the eye of faith, 
Hiding the present God; whose presence lost, 
The moral world's cohesion, we become 
An anarchy of spirits I Toy-bewitched, 
Made blind by lusts, disherited of soul. 
No common centre man, no common sire 
Knoweth ! A sordid solitary thing, 
Mid countless brethren with a lonely heart 
Through courts and cities the smooth savage 

roams 
Feehng himself, his own low self the whole ; 
When he by sacred sympathy might make 
The whole one self! self, that no- alien knows ! 
Self, far diffused as fancy's wing can travel ! 
Self, spreading still I Oblivious of its own, 
Yet all of all possessing ! This is faith ! 
This the Messiah's destined victory ! 
But first offences needs must come ! Even now* 

* January 21st, 1791, in the debate on the address 
to his Majesty, on the speech from the Throne, the 
Earl of Guildford moved an amendment to the fol- 
lowing effect : "That the House hoped his Majesty 
would seize the earliest opportunity to conclude h 
peace with France," &c. This motion was opposed 
by the Duke of Portland, who "considered the war 
to be merely grounded on one principle— the preser- 




^ 




fr.l 



120 



KELIGIOUS IIUSINOS. 



h* 



(Black hell laughs horrible — to hear the scoff!) 
Thee to defend, meek GaUlean ! Thee 
And thy mild laws of love unutterable. 
Mistrust and enmity have burst the bands 
Of social peace ; and listening treachery lurks 
With pious fraud to snare a brother's life ; 
And childless v.'idows o'er the groaning land 
Wail numberless ; and orphans weep for bread 
Thee to defend, dear Saviour of mankind ! 
Thee, Lamb of God ! Thee, blameless Prince 

of peace ! 
From all sides rush the thirsty brood of War — 
Austria, and that foul woman of the north, 
The lustful murderess of her wedded lord ! 
And he, connatural mind ! v/hom (in their songs 
So bards of elder time had haply feigned) 
Some fury fondled in her hate to man, 
Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge 
Lick his young face, and at his mouth imbreathe 

vationofthe Christian Religion." May SOth, 1794, 
the Duke of Bedford moved a nnmber of resolutions, 
with a view to the establishment of a peace with 
France. He was opposed, (among others) by I-ord 
Abington in these remarkable words: "The best 
road to Peace, my Lords, is ^Var ! and War carried 
on in the same manner in which we are taught to 
v/orship our Creator, namely, with all our sonls, and 
with all our mind=!, and with all our hearts, ami v/it? 
all our strength.'' 






T 





RELIGIOUS jirsraas. 



12J 



Horrible sympathy ! And leagued with these 
Each pretty German princeling, nursed iu gore 
Soul-hardened barterers of human blood ! 
Death's prime slave-merchants 1 Scorpion 

whips of Fate ! 
Nor least in savagery of holy zeal, 
Apt for the yoke, the race degenerate. 
Whom Britain erst had blushed to call her sons : 
Thee to defend the Moloch priest prefers 
The prayer of hate, and bel!ov/s to the herd 
That deity, accompHce deity 
In the fierce jealousy of wakened wrath 
Will go forth with our armies and our fleets 
To scatter the red ruin on their foes ! 
O blasphemy ! to mingle fiendish deeds 
With blessedness ! 

Lord of unsleeping love * 
From everlasting Thou ! We shall not die. 
These, even these, in mercy didst thou form 
Teachers of good through evil, by brief wronsr. 
Making Truth lovely, and her future might 
Magnetic o'er the fixed untrembling heart. 
In the primeval age a dateless while 
The vacant shepherd wandered with his flock, 

* Art thou not from everlastin?, O Lord, my Rod, 
mine Holy One "? We shall not die. O Lord, thou 
hast ordained thera for judgment, &c. Habakkuk. 



"^ . v^, 



m 



/n '•' 



^ 



122 



RELIGIOUS MUSmGE 



Pitching his tent where'er the green grass wavf d. 
But soon imagination conjured up 
A host of new desires : with busj^ aim, 
Each for himself, earth's eager children toiled. 
So property began, twy-streaming fount. 
Whence vice and virtue flow, honey and gall. 
Hence the soft couch, and many-coloured robe, 
The timbrel, and arch'd dome and costly feast, 
Wuh all the Inventive arts, that nursed the soul 
To forms of beauty, and by sensual wants 
Unsensualised the mind, which in the means 
Learnt to forget the grossness of the end, 
Best pleasured with his own activity. 
And hence disease that withers manhood's arm. 
The daggered Envy, spirit-quenching Want, 
Warriors, and lords, and priests — all the sore ills 
That vex and desolate our mortal life. 
Wide-wasting ills ! yet each the immediate 

source 
Of mightier good. Their keen necessities 
To ceaseless action goading human thought 
Have made earth's reasoning animal her lord ; 
And the pale featured sage's trembling hand 
Strong as a host of armed deities. 
Such as the bhnd Ionian fabled erst. 

From avarice thus, from luxury and war 
Sprang heavenly science ; and from scienco 
freedom. 



Si: 



1^' 



-rOC't^^fWi^ 



RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 



123 



O'er wakened realms philosophers and bards 
Spread in concentric circles : they whose souls, 
Conscious of their high dignities from God, 
Brook not wealth's rivalry ! and they who long 
Enamoured with the charms of order hate 
The unseemly disproportion : and whoe'er 
Turn with mild sorrow from the victor's car 
And the low puppetry of thrones, to muse 
On that blest triumph, when the patriot sage 
Called the red lightnings from the o'er rushing 

cloud 
And dashed the beauteous terrors on the earth 
Smihng majestic. Such a phalanx ne'er 
Measured firm paces to the calming sound 
Of Spartan flute ! These on the fated day, 
When, stung to rage by pity, eloquent men 
Have roused with pealing voice the unnumbered 

tribes 
That toil and groan and bleed, hungry and 

blind,— 
These hushed awhile with patient eye serene 
Shall watch the mad careering of the storm ; 
Then o'er the wild and wavy chaos rush 
And tame the outrageous mass, with plastic 

might 
Moulding confusion to such perfect forms. 
As erst were wont, — bright visions of the day ! — 
To float before them, when, the summer noo'j 



:k 



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f. 



1 



^^ 



i24 



KfiLIGIOrS BIUSINGS. 



Beneath some arch'd romantic rock reclined 
Tliey felt the sea breeze hft tLeir youthful 

locks ; 
Or in the month of blossoms, at mild eve, 
Wandering with desultory feet inhaled 
!• The wafted perfumes, and the flocks and woods 

^^ And many- tinted streams and setting sun 
^' With all his gorgeous company of clouds 

Ecstatic gazed ! then homeward as they strayed 
Cds^. the sad eye to earth, and in.ly mused 
Why there was misery in the world so fair. 
Ah I far removed from all that glads the sense, 
From all that softens or ennobles Man, 
The wretched many ! Bent beneath their 

loads 
They gape at pageant power, nor recognise 
Their cot's transmitted plunder ! From the tree 
Of knowledge, ere the vernal sap had risen 
Rudely disbranched ! Blest society ! 
Fitiiest depictured by some sun-scorched waste. 
Where oft majestic through the tainted noon 
The Simoom sails, before whose purple pomp 
Who falls not prostrate dies ! And where by 

night, 
Fast by each precious fountain on green herbs 
The lion couches ; or hyaena dips 
Deep in the lucid stream his bloody jaws ; 
Or serpent plants his vast moon-ghttering bulk. 




KELIGIOrS MUSINGS 



Caught in whose monstrous tvvine Behemoth"^ 

yells, 
His bones loud-crashing ! 

O ye numberless, 
Whom foul oppression's ruffian gluttony 
Drives from hfe's plenteous feast ! O thou poor 

wretch 
Who nursed in darkness and made wild by want, 
Roamest for prey, yea thy unnatural hand 
Dost lift to deeds of blood ! O pale-eyed form. 
The victim of seduction, doomed to know 
Polluted nights and days of l)laspheniy ; 
Who in loathed orgies with lewd wassailers 
Must gaily laugh, while thy remembered home 
Gnaws like a viper at thy secret heart ! 
O aged women ! ye who weekly catch 
The m.orsel tossed by law-forced charity, 
And die so slowly, that none call it murder 1 - 
O loathly suppliants! ye, that unreceived 
Totter heart-broken from the closing gates 
Of the full lazar-house : or, gazing, stand 
Sick whh despair ! O ye to glory's field 
P'orced or ensnared, who, as ye gasp in death, 



^ 



^ 



* Behemoth, in Hebrew, signifies wild beasts in 
general. Some believe it is the elephant, some the 
hippopotamus; some affirm it is the wild bull. 
Poetically, it designates any large quadruped. 



m.^^. 



-^^ 



^)¥ 




^ 



RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 

Bleed with new 'wounds beneath the vuUure'a 

beak ! 

O thou poor widow, who in dreams dost view 
Thy husband's mangled corse, and from short 

doze 
Start' St with a shriek ; or in thy half- thatched cot 
Waked by the wintry night-storm, wet and cold, 
Cow'r'st o'er thy screaming baby ! Rest awhile, 
Children of wretchedness! More groans must 

rise. 
More blood must stream, or ere your wrongs be 

full. 
Yet is the day of retribution nigh : 
The Lamb of God hath opened the fifth seal: 
And upward rush on swiftest wing of fire 
The innumerable multitude of wrongs 
By man on man inflicted ! Rest awhile. 
Children of wretchedness ! The hour is nigh ; 
And lo 1 the great, the rich, the mighty men, 
The kings and the chief captains of the world, 
With all that fixed on high like stars of heaven 
Shot baleful influence, shall be cast to earth. 
Vile and down-trodden, as the untimely fruit 
Shook from the fig-tree by a sudden storm. 
Even now the storm begins :* each gentle name, 
Faith and meek Piety, with fearful joy 

* Alluding to the French Revolution. 



m 








KELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 

Tremble far-off— for lo ! the giant Frenzy- 
Uprooting empires with his whirlwind arm 
Mocketh high heaven ; burst hideous from the 

cell 
Where the old hag, unconquerable, huge, 
Creation's eyeless drudge, black ruin, sits 
Nursing the impatient earthquake. 

O return ! 
Pure Fahh ! meek Piety ! The abhorred form 
Whose scarlet robe was stiff with earthly pomp, 
Who drank iniquity in cups of gold, 
Whose names were many and all blasphemous, 
Hath met the horrible judgment ! Whence that 

cry? 
The mighty army of foul spirits shrieked 
Disherited of earth ! For she hath fallen 
On whose black front was written Mystery ; 
She that reeled heavily, whose wine was blood : 
She that worked whoredom with the demon 

power. 
And from the dark embrace all evil things 
Brought forth and nurtured : mitred Atheism ! 
And patient Folly who on bended knee 
Gives back the steel that stabbed him ; and pale 

fear 
Haunted by ghastlier shapings than surround 
Moon-blasted Madness when he yells at mid- 
night ! 



M 






■^-h 



y\'. 




s^^rv^^ 



k"- 



EELIGIOL'S ]MUSir;G3 




Return pure Faith ! return meek Piety ! 

The kingdoms of the world are yours: each 

heart 
Self-governed, the vast family of Love 
Raised from the common earth by common toil 
Enjoy the equal produce. Such delights 
As tloat to earth, permitted visitants ! 
When in some hour of solemn jubilee 
The massy gates of Paradise are thrown 
Wide open, and forth come in fragments wild 
Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies, 
And odours snatched from beds of amaranth, 
And they, that from the crystal river of hfe 
Spring up on freshened wing, ambrosial gales I 
The favoured good man in his lonely walk 
Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks 
Strange bliss which he shall recognise in heaven. 
And such delights, such strange beatitudes 
Seize on my young anticipating heart 
When that blest future rushes on my view ! 
For in his own and in his Father's might 
The Saviour comes ! While as the Thousand 

Years 
Lead up their mystic dance, the Desert shouts ! 
Old Ocean claps his hands ! The mighty Dead 
Rise to new life, whoe'er from earliest time 
With conscious zeal had urged Love's wondrous 

plan, 



\1 



'f^^^^ 

"■ k 



^2 





UELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 

Coadjutors of God. To Milton's trump 
The high groves of the renovated earth 
Unbosom their glad echoes: inly hushed, 
Adoring Newton his serener eye 
Raises to heaven : and he of mortal kind 
Wisest, he* first who marked the ideal tribes 
Up the fine fibres through the sentient brain. 
Lo ! Priestley there, patriot, and saint, and sage, 
Him, full of years, from his loved native land 
Statesmen blood stained and priests idolatrous 
By dark lies maddening the blind multitude 
Drove with vain hate. Calm, pitying he retired, 
And mused expectant on these promised years. 

O years ! the blest pre-eminence of saints 1 
Ye sweep athwart my gaze, so heavenly bright, 
The wings that veil the adoring seraph's eye. 
What time they bend before the Jasper Thronet 
Reflect no loveUer hues ! Yet ye depart. 
And all beyond is darkness ! Heights most 

strange 
When Fancy falls, fluttering her idle wing. 



* David Hartley. 

t Rev. chap. iv. v. 2 and 3: — And immediately I 
was in the spirit : and behold, a Throne was set in 
Heaven, and one sat on the Throne. And he that 
sat was to look upon like a jasper and a sardine 
stone, &;c. 

9 



K 



%i 




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[-V 



RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 

For who of woman born may paint the houi , 
When seized in his mid course, the sun shall 

wane 
Making noon ghastly ! Who of woman born 
May image in the workings of his thought, 
How the black-visaged, red-eyed fiend out 

stretched* 
Beneath the unsteady feet of Nature groans, 
In feverous slumbers — destined then to wake, 
When fiery whirlwinds thunder his dread name 
And Angels shout, Destruction ! How his arm 
The last great spirit hfting high in air, 
Shall swear by Him, the ever-living One, 
Time is no more ! 

Believe thou, my soul. 
Life is a vision shadowy of Truth ; 
And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave, 
Shapes of a dream ! The veiling clouds retire, 
And lo ! the throne of the redeeming God 
Forth flashing unimaginable day 
Wraps in one blaze, earth, heaven, and deepest 
hell. 




C.^^ 



(-S/ 




Contemplant spirits ! ye that hover o'er 
With untired gaze the immeasurable fount 
Ebullient with creative Deity ! 

* The final destruction impersonated. 



^'^ 



ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR. 




'^Mt 



T 



131 



And ye of plastic power, that interfused 

Roll through the grosser and material mass 

In organizing surge ! Holies of God ! 

(And what if Monads of the infinite mind) 

I haply journeying my immortal course 

Shall sometime join your mystic choir. Till then 

I discipline my young and novice thought 

In ministeries of heart- stirring song, 

And aye on Meditation's heaven- ward wing 

Soaring aloft I breathe the empyreal air 

Of love, omnific, omnipresent love, 

Whose day-spring rises glorious in my soul 

As the great sun, wheii he his influence 

Sheds on the frost-bound waters — The glad 

stream 
Flows to the ray and warbles as it flows. 



ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR.* 
I. 
Spirit who sweepest the wild harp of time ! 
It is most hard, with an untroubled ear 
Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear I 
Yet, mine eye fixed on heaven's unchangini]; 
clime, 

* This Ode was composed on the 2Jth, 25th, rird 
26th days of December, 1796: and was first published 
on the last day of that year. 



O 






M'P^ 



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132 



ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR. 



Long had I listened, free from mortal fear, 
V/ith inward stillness, and a bowed mind • 
When lo ! its folds far waving on the wind, 

I saw the train of the departing year ! 
Starting from my silent sadness 
Then whh no unholy madness, 

Ere yet the entered cloud foreclosed my sight, 

I raised the impetuous song, and solemnized his 
flight. 



^ 



Hither, from the recent tomb, 

From the prison's direr gloom. 
From distemper's midnight anguish ; 
And thence, where poverty doth waste and 

languish ! 
Or where, his two bright torches blending, 

Love illumines manhood's maze ; 
Or where o'er cradled infants bending 
Hope has fixed her wishful gaze ; 

Hither, in perplexed dance, 
Ye Woes ! ye young-eyed Joys ! advance ' 

By Time's wild harp, and by the hand 
Whose indefatigable sweep 
Raises its fateful strings from sleep, 

I bid you haste, a mixed tumultuous band ! 
From every private bower, 






ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR. 

And each domestic hearth, 
Haste for one solemn hour ; 
And with a loud and yet a louder voice. 
O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth, 

Weep and rejoice ! 
Still echoes the dread name that o'er the earth 
Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of Hell : 

And now advance in saintly jubilee 
Justice and Truth! They too have heard thy 
spell. 
They too obey thy name, divinest Liberty ! 



I marked Ambition in his war- array ! 

I heard the mailed monarch's troublous cry — 
' ' Ah ! wherefore does the northern conqueress 

stay ! 
Groans not her chariot on its onward way ?" 
Fly, mailed monarch, fly ! 
Stunned by Death's twice mortal mace, 
No more on murder's lurid face 
The insatiate hag shall gloat whh drunken eye ! 
Manes of the unnumbered slain ! 
Ye that gasped on Warsaw's plain ! 
Ye that erst at Ismail's tower. 
When human ruin choaked the streams, 

Fell in conquest's glutted hour. 
Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams ! 




ODE TO THE DEFAKTIN 

Spirits of the uncoffined slain, 

Sudden blasts of triuinph swelling, 
Oft, at night, in misty train, 

Rush around her narrow dwelling ! 
The exterminating fiend is fled — 

(Foul her life, and dark her doom)— 
Mighty armies of the dead 

Dance, hke death-fires, round her tomb ! 
Then with prophetic song relate, 
^ach some tyrant-murderer's fate ! 



Departing Year ! 'twas on no earthly shore 
My soul beheld thy vision ! Where alone, 
Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne, 
Aye Memory sits : thy robe inscribed wdth gore, 
With many an unimaginable groan 
Thou storied' st thy sad hours ! Silence en- 
sued. 
Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude, 
Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with 
glories shone. 
Then, his eye wild ardours glancing, 
From the choired gods sdvancing. 
The spirit of the Earth mhie reverence meet, 
And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. 




t^p. 





ODE TO THE DEPAKTING YEAU. 



135 



Throughout the bUssful throng, 
Hushed were harp and song : 
Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads 
seven, 
(The mystic words of heaven) 
Permissive signal make : 
The fervent spirit bowed, then spread his wings 
and spake ! 
" Thou in stormy blackness throning 

Love and uncreated light, 
By the Earth's unsolaced groaning, 
Seize thy terrors, Arm of might! 
By peace with proffered insult scared. 
Masked hate and envying scorn ! 
By years of havoc yet unborn ! 
And hunger's bosom to the frost- winds bared ! 
But chief by Afric's wrongs. 

Strange, horrible, and foul ! 
By what deep guilt belongs 
To the deaf synod, ' full of gifts and lies !' 
By wealth's insensate laugh ! by torture's howl ! 
avenger, rise ! 
For ever shall the thankless island scowl, 
Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow ? 
Speak ! from thy storm-black heaven, O speak 
aloud! 







J 



1^ 



(*^ 



136- 



ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR. 



And on the darkling foe 
Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain 
cloud ! 
O dart the flash ! O rise and deal the blow ' 
The Past to thee, to thee the Future cries ! 
Hark ! how wide Nature joins her groans 
below ! 
Rise, God of Nature ! rise." 



The voice had ceased, the vision fled ; 
Yet still I gasped and reeled with dread. 
And ever, when the dream of night 
Renews the phantom to my sight, 
Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ; 

My ears throb hot ; my eye-balls start ; 
My brain with horrid tumult swims ; 

Wild is the tempest of my heart ; 
And my thick and struggUng breath 
Imitates the toil of death ! 
No stranger agony confounds 

The soldier on the war-field spread. 
When all foredone with toil and wounds, 

Death-hke he dozes among heaps of dead! 
(The strife is o'er, the day-hght fled. 

And the night-wind clamours hoarse ! 
See I the starting wretch's head 

Lies pillowed on a brother's corse.'} 



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-^ 





ODE TO THE DEPARTrxa YEAR 



Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, 
O Albion I O my mother Isle ! 
Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers, 
Glitter green with sunny showers ; 
Thy grassy uplands gentle swells 

Echo to the bleat of flocks ; 
(Those grassy hills, those ghttering dells 

Proudly ramparted with rocks) 
And Ocean mid his uproar wild 
Speaks safety to his island-child ; 

Hence for many a fearless age 

Has social Quiet loved thy shore ; 
Nor ever proud invader's rage 
Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields 

with gore. 



Abandoned of heaven ! mad avarice thy guide, 
At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride^ 
Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou 

hast stood. 
And joined the wild yelling of famine and blood'. 
The nations curse thee ! They with eager won- 
dering 
Shall hear Destruction, like a vulture scream ' 



> 






P 





ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAK 

Strange-eyed Destruction ! who with many a 
dream 
Of central fii'es through nether seas upthundering 

Soothes her fierce solitude ; yet as she lies 
By livid fount, or red volcanic stream, 

If ever to her hdless dragon-eyes, 

O Albion ! thy predestined ruins rise. 
The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, 
Muttering distempered triumph in her charmed 
sleep. 



Away, my soul, away ! 
In vain, in vain the birds of warning sing — 
And hark ! I hear the famished brood of prey 
Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind ! 
Away, my soul, away ! 
I unpartaking of the evil thing. 
With daily prayer and daily toil 
Soliciting for food my scanty soil. 
Have wailed my country with a loud lament. 
Now I recentre my immortal mind 

In the deep sabbath of meek self-content ; 
Cleansed from the vaporous passions that bedim 
God's image, sister of the seraphim. 




P 



FRANCE. 




^^ 



139 



FRANCE.— AN ODE. 
I. 

Ye clouds ! that far above me float and pause, 
Whose pathless march no mortal may control ! 
Ye ocean- waves ! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, 
Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
Ye woods! that listen to the night-birds smgmg, 
Midway the smooth and perilous slope re- 
chned, 
Save when your own imperious branches 
swinging, 
Have made a solemn music of the wind ! 
Where, hke a man beloved of God, 
Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 

How oft, pursuing fancies holy. 
My moonlight way o'er flowering fields I 
wound, 
Inspired, beyond the guess ot tolly, 
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable 

sound ! , • 1 , 

O ye loud waves '. and O ye forests high ! 

And O ye clouds that far above me soared ! 
Thou rising sun ! thou blue rejoicing sky ! 
Yea, every thing that is and will be free ! 
Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, 
With what deep worship I have still adored 
The spirit of divinest Liberty. 



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140 



When France m wrath her giant-limbs upreared, 
And with that oath, which smo^e air, earth 

and sea, 
Stamped her strong foot and said she would be 
free, 
Bear ^vitness for me, how I hoped and feared ! 
With what a joj'' my lofty gratulation 

Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band : 
And when to whelm the disenchanted nation. 
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, 
The monarchs marched in evil day, 
And Britain joined the dire array ; 
Though dear her shores and circling ocean, 
Though many friendships, many youthful loves 

Had swol'n the patriot emotion 
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and 

groves ; 
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat 

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, 
And shame too long delayed and vain retreat ! 
For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim 
I dimmed thy Hght or damped thy holy flame ; 

But blessed the paeans of deUvered France, 
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 









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141 



' And what," I said, " thougn Blasphemy's 
loud scream 
With that sweet music of deUverance strove ! 
Though all the fierce and drunken passions 
wove 
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's 
dream ! 
Ye storms, that round the dawning east as- 
sembled, 
The sun was rising, though ye hid his light !" 
And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and 
trembled. 
The dissonance ceased, and all seemed cahn 
and bright ; 
When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory 
Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory ; 

When, insupportably advancing, 
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's 
tramp ; 
While timid looks of fury glancing. 
Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal 
stamp, 
Writhed Uke a wounded dragon in his gore ; 
Then I reproached my fears that would not 
flee; 



(}i 



" And soon," I said, 
lore 



shall Wisdom teach her 



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142 FRANCE. 

In the low huts of them that toil and groan ! 
And, conquering by her happiness alone, 

Shall France compel the nations to be free, 
Till Love and Joy look round, and call the earth 
their own." 



Forgive me, Freedom ! O forgive those dreams 
I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament^ 
From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern sent — 
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained 
streams ! 
Heroes, that for your peaceful country 
perished, 
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows 
With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I 
cherished 
One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes I 
To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt. 
Where Peace her jealous home had built ; 
A patriot race to disinherit 
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear ; 

And with inexpiable spirit 
To taint the bloodless freedom of the moun- 
taineer — 
O France, that mockest heaven, adulterous, 
blind. 
And patriot only in pernicious toils, 
Are these thy boasts, champion of human kind ? 







f''/^ 



c^^ 



FEANCE. 143 

To mix with kings in the low lust of sway, 
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous 

prey ; 
To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils 

From freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray ? 



1^. 



The sensual and the dark rebel in vain, 
Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad 

game 
They burst their manacles and wear the name 

Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain I 
O Liberty ! with profitless endeavour 
Have I pursued thee, many a weary hoiir ; 
But thou nor swell' st the victor's strain, nor 
ever 
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. 
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, 
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) 

Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 
And factious BlaspJiemy's obscener slaves, 
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, 
The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of 

the waves ! 
And there I felt thee ! — on that sea-cliff's verge, 
Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze 
above, 
Had made one murmur with the distant surge ! 






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144 



FEARS IN SOL. TUBE. 



Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bnre, 
And shot my bemg through earth, sea and air, 

Possessing all things with intensest love, 
O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 

February, 1797. 



FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 

WRITTEN IN APRIL, 1798, DURIN& THE ALARM 
OF AN INVASION. 

A GREEN and silent spot, amid the hills, 
A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place 
No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. 
The hills are heathy, save that sweUing slope, 
Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,. 
All golden with the never-bloomless furze, 
Which now blooms most profusely ; hut t«he dell, 
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate 
As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax. 
When, through its half-transparent stalks, at 

eve, 
The level sunshine glimmers wath green light. 
Oh ! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook ! 
Which all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly he 
'The humble man, who, in his youthful years. 
Knew just so much of folly, as had made 
His early manhood more securely wise ! 
Here he might lie on fern or withered heath, 



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PEAKS IN SOLITUDE. 



145 



While from the singing-lark (that sings u;iseen 
The minstrelsy that sohtude loves best,) 
And from the sun, and from the breezy air, 
Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; 
And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, 
Made up a meditative joy, and found 
Religious meanings in the forms of nature ! 
And so, his senses gradually wrapt 
In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds, 
And dreaming hears thee still, O singing-lark ; 
That singest like an angel in the clouds ! 

My God ! it is a melancholy thing 
For such a man, who would full fain preserve 
His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel 
For all his human brethren — O my God ! 
It weighs upon the heart, that he must think 
What uproar and what strife may now be stirring 
This way or that way o'er these silent hills — 
Invasion, and the thunder and the shout, 
And all the crash of onset ; fear and rage, 
And undetermined conflict — even now. 
Even now, perchance, and in his native isle : 
Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun ! 
We have offended, Oh ! my countrymen! 
We have offended very grievously. 
And been most tyrannous. From east to west 
A groan of accusation pierces heaven ! 
The wretched plead against us ; multitudes 
10 



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^■^^, 



^ 




PEAKS IN SOLITUDE. 



Countless and vehemeni, the sons of God, 
Our brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on, 
Steamed up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence. 
Even so, my countrymen ! have we gone forth 
4nd borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs, 
And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint 
With slow perdition murders the whole man, 
His body and his soul ! Meanwhile, at home. 
All individual dignity and power 
Engulfed in courts, committees, institutions, 
Associations and societies, 
A vain speech-mouthing, speech-reporting guild, 
One benefit-club for mutual flattery, 
We have drunk up, demure as at a grace. 
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth ; 
Contemptuous of all honourable rule. 
Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life 
For gold, as at a market ! The sweet words 
Of Christian promise, words that even yet 
Might stem destruction, were they wisely 

preached. 
Are muttered o'er by men, whose tones proclaiiA 
How flat and wearisome they feel their trade : 
Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent 
To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth. 
Oh ! blasphemous! the book of hfe is made 
A superstitious instrument, on which 
We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break ; 



Ms: 



(^ 




FE^RS IN SOLITUDE. 

For all must swear — all and in every place, 
College and wharf, council and justice-court ; 
All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed, 
Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest. 
The rich, the poor, the old man and the young ; 
AH, make up one scheme of perjury. 
That faith doth reel ; the very name of God 
Sounds like a juggler's charm; and, bold with 

joy, 
Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place, 
(Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism, 
Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon. 
Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them 

close. 
And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven, 
Cries out, "Where is it ?" 

Thankless too for peace, 
(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous 

seas) 
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved 
To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war! 
Alas ! for ages ignorant of all 
Its ghastly workings, (famine or blue plague, 
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows 
We, this whole people, have been clamorous 
For war and bloodshed ; animating sports, 
The which we pay for as a thin^ to talk of. 
Spectators and not combatants ! No guess 




^ 






^w^. 




^? 



FEARS IN SOLITTTDE. 



Anticipative of a wrong unfelt, 
No speculation or contingency, 
However dim and vague, too vague and dim 
To yield a justifying cause ; and forth, 
(Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names, 
And adjurations of the God in Heaven.) 
We send our mandates for the certain death 
Of thousands and ten thousands ! Boys and 

girls. 
And women, that would groan to see a child 
Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, 
The best amusement for our morning-meal ! 
The poor wretch, who has learnt his only 

prayers 
From curses, who knows scarcely words enough 
To ask a blessing from his heavenly Father, 
Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute 
And technical in victories and defeats, 
And ail our dainty terms for fratricide ; 
Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er cur 

tongues 
Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which 
We join no feeling and attach no form ! 
As if the soldier died without a wound ; 
As if the fibres of this godlike frame 
Were gored without a pang ; as if the wretch 
Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, 
Passed off to heaven, translated and not lulled • 



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■i 



FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 



149 



As though he had no wife to pine for him, 
No God to judge hinn! Therefore, evil days 
Are coming on us, my countrymen ! 
And what if all-avenging Providence, 
Strong and retributive, should make us know 
The meaning of our words, force us to feel 
The desolation and the agony 
Of our fierce douigs ! 

Spare us yet aw^hile, 
Father and God ! ! spare us yet awhile ! 
Oh ! let not English women drag their flight 
Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes, 
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday 
Laughed at the breast! Sons, brothers, hus 

bands, all 
Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms 
Which grew up with you round the same fire- 
side. 
And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells 
Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves 

pure ! 
Stand forth ! be men ! repel an impious foe, 
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race. 
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth 
With deeds of murder; and still promising 
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free, 
Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart 
Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes 



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FEARS IN SOLITUDE 



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And all that lifts the spirit ! Stand \ve forth ; 
Render them back upon the insulted ocean, 
And let them toss as idly on its waves 
As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain- 
blast 
Swept from our shores ! And oh ! may we re- 
turn 
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear, 
Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung 
So fierce a foe to frenzy ! 

I have told, 
O Britons ! O my brethren ! I have told 
Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. 
Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed ; 
For never can true courage dwell with them, 
Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not 

look 
At their own vices. We have been too long 
Dupes of a deep delusion ! Some, belike, 
Groaning with restless enmity, expect 
All change from change of constituted power ; 
As if a government had been a robe. 
On which our vice and wretchedness were 

tagged 
Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe 
Pulled off at pleasure. Fondly these attach 
A radical causation to a few 
Poor drudges of chastising Providence, 






'Nft 






FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 



151 



Ww 



Who borrow all their hues and quaUties 
From our own folly and rank wickedness, 
Which gave them birth and nursed them. 

Others, meanwhile, 
Dote with a mad idolatry ; and all 
Who will not fall before their images. 
And yield them worship, they are enemies 
Even of their country ! 

Such have I been deemed — 
But, dear Britain ! O my mother isle ! 
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and 

holy 
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, 
A husband, and a father ! who revere 
i^.U bonds of natural love, and find them all 
"Witliin the limits of thy rocky shores. 
native Britain ! O my mother isle ! 
How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear 

and holy 
To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills, 
Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, 
Have drunk in all my intellectual life, 
All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, 
All adoration of the God in nature, 
All lovely and all honourable things, 
Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 
The joy and greatness of its future being ? 
There hves nor form nor feeling in my soul 



^xP 

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\% 




152 



FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 



Unborrowed from my country. O divine 

And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole "^ 

And most magnificent temple, in the which 

I walk Avith awe, and sing my stately songs, 

Loving tlae God that made me ! 

May my fears, 
My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts 
And menace of the vengeful enemy 
Pass like the gust, that roared and died away 
In the distant tree : which heard, and onlv heard 
In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass. 

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad 
The fruit-hke perfume of the golden furze: 
The light has left the summit of the hill. 
Though still a sunny gleam hes beautiful, 
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell, 
Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot ! 
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, 
Homeward I wind my way ; and lo ! recalled 
From bodings that have well nigh wearied me, 
I find myself upon the brow, and pause 
Startled ! And after lonely sojourning A^ 

In such a quiet and surrounded nook. 
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main, 
Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty 
Of that huge amphiiheafre of rich 
And elmy fields, seems like society — 





main, 


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Conversing with the mind, and giving it 

A Uvelier impulse and a dance of thought ! 

And now, beloved Stowey ! I behold 

Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four 

huge elms 
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my 

friend ; 
And close behind them, hidden from my vievv^. 
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 
And my babe's mother dwell in peace ! With 

light 
And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend, 
Piemembering thee, O green and silent dell! 
And grateful, that by nature's quietness 
And solitary musings, all my heart 
Is softened, and made worthy to indulge 
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human 

kind. 

Nether Stowey, April 28th, 1798. 






LOVE. 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 

And feed his sacred flame. 






J.. G?;: 






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I^VL^-^^ 





Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay, 
Beside the ruined tower. 



The moonshine, steahng o'er the scene, 
Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She leaned against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight ; 
She stood and listened to my lay, 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 

The songs that make her grieve. 



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I played a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 

She listened whh a flitting blush. 
With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 



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I told her of the kmght tnat wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
And that for ten long years he wooed 
The lady of the land. 




I told her how he pined : and ah ! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love, 
Interpreted my ow^n. 

She listened whh a flhting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face ! 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely knight, 
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night ; 



That sometimes from the savage den. 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

There came and looked him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright ; 
And that he knew it was a fiend. 
This miserable knight ! 



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And that unknowing what he did, 
He leaped amid a murderous band. 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The lady of the land ;— 

And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 

And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; — 

His dying words — ^but when I reached 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturbed her soul with pity ! 

All impulses of sou. and sense 
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
The music and the doleful tale. 
The rich and balmy eve ; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wnslies long subdued, 

Subdued and cherished long ! 



^ 



^ 



(^^ 




She wept with pity and delight, 

She blushed with love, and virgin shame 

And like the murmur ot\a. dream, 

I heard her breathe my name. 

Her bosom heaved — she stept aside, 
As conscious of my look she stept — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half inclosed me with her arms, 
She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
And bending back her head, looked up. 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art. 
That I might rather feel, than see, 
The swelling of her heart. 



I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride ; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous bride. 
















The moon was high, the moonhght gleam 

And the shadow of a star 
Heaved upon Tamaha's stream ; 

But the rock shone brighter far, 
The rock half shehered from my view 
By pendent boughs of tressy yew — 
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, 
Gleaming through her sable hair. 
Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
I saw a cloud of palest hue, 

Onward to the moon it passed ; 
Still brighter and more bright it grew, 
With floating colours not a few. 

Till it reached the moon at last: 
Then the cloud was wholly bright, 
With a rich and amber light ! 
And so with many a hope T seek. 

And with such iov I find my Lewti ; 












J^& 



<^ 




«^ 



LEWTI. 159 

And even so my pale wan cheek 

Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty ! 
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind, 
If Levvt«i never will be kind. 

The little cloud — it floats away, 

Away it goes; away so soon ? 
Alas ! it has no power to stay : 
Its hues are dim, its hues are gray- 
Away it passes from the moon ! 
How mournfully it seems to fly 

Ever fading more and more, 
To joyless regions of the sky — ■ 

And now 'tis whiter than befwe ! 
As white as my poor cheek will be. 

When, Lewti ! on my couch I he, 
A dying man for love of thee. 
Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind— 
And yet, thou did'st not look unkind. 

I saw a vapour in the sky. 

Thin, and white, and very high ; 
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud: 

Perhaps the breezes that can fly 

Now below and now above, 
Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud 

Of lady fair — that died for love. 
For maids, as well as youths, have perished 
From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 



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160 



Nay, treacberoys image ! leave my mind— 
For Lewti never will be kind. 

Hush ! my heedless feet from under 
Slip the crumbling banks for ever : 

Like echoes to a distant thunder, 
They plunge into the gentle river. 

The river-swans have heard my tread 

And startle from their reedy bed. 

O beauteous birds ! methinks ye raea nre 
Your movements to some heavenly ^uiie' 

beauteous birds ! 'tis such a pleasure 
To see you move beneath the moon, 

1 would it were your true delight 
To sleep by day and wake all night. 

1 know the place where Lewti lies. 
When silent night has closed her eyes : 

It is a breezy jasmine-bower, 
The nightingale sings o'er her head: 

Voice of the night ! had I the power 
That leafy labyrinth to thread. 
And creep, like thee, with soundless tread 
I then might view her bosom white 
Heaving lovely to my sight. 
As these two swans together heave 
On the gently sweUing wave. 

Oh ! that she saw me in a dream, 
And dreamt that I had died for care : 



^1 



^.: 




THE PICTURE 

OR THE lover' 



RESOLUTION. 



Vhrouoh weeds and thorns, and matted under- 
wood 
t force my way ; now climb, and now descend 
O'tr rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot 
Crushing the purple whorts ; while oft unseen, 
Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves, 
The scared snake rustles. Onward still 1 u/il 
I know not, ask not whither I a new joy, 
Lovely as hght, sudden as summer gust. 
And gladsome as the firsi-born of the spring. 
Beckons me on, or follows from behind. 
Playmate, or guide ! The master-passion 

quelled, 
I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark 
The fir-trees, and the unfrequcnt slender oak, 
Forth from his tangle wild of bush and brake 
11 



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162 THE PICTURE. 

Soar up, and form a melancholy vault 
High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea. 

Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remor?e ; 
Here too the love-lorn man, who, sick in sou!, 
And of this busy human heart aweary, 
Worships the spirit of unconscious life 
W^ In tree or wild flower. — Gentle lunatic ! 
If so he might not wholly cease to be, 
He would far rather not be that, he is ; 
K But would be something, that he knows not of, 

'^ In winds or waters, or among the rocks ! 

But hence, fond wretch! breathe not contagion 

here ! 
No myrtle -walks are these : these are no groves 
^ Where Love dare loiter ! If in sullen mood 
^ He should stray hither, the low stumps shall 

gore 
His dainty feet, the briar and the thorn 
Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded 

bird 
Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs, 
Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades! 
And you, ye earth- winds ! you that make at 

morn 
The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' \vebs 
You, O ye wingless Airs! that creep beiween 
The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze, 





I 



THE PICTURE. 

Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon, 
The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed — 
Ye, that now cool her fleece wiih drop'csa 

damp, 
Now pant and murmur with her feeding Iamb. 
Chase, chase him, all ye fays, and elfin gnomes ! 
With prickles sharper than his darts bemock 
His httle god^hip, making him perforce 
Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's 

back. 

This is my hour of triumph! I can now 
With my own fancies play the merry fool, 
And laugh away worse folly, being free. 
Here will I seat myself, beside this old. 
Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine 
Clothes as with net-work: here will I cou-;h 

my limbs, 
Close by this river, in this silent shade. 
As safe and sacred from the step of man 
As an invisible world — unheard, unseen, 
And listening only to the pebbly brook 
That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound ; 
Or to the bees, that in the neighbouring irunk 
Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visiis me, 
Was never Love's accompUce, never raised 
The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow. 
And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek ; 
Ne'er played the wanton — never half disclosed 




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164 




THE PICTURE 



The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence 
Eye-poisons for some love-distcnipered youth., 
Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove 
Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart 
Shall flow away like a dissolving thing. 

Sweet breeze ! thou only, if I guess aright, 
Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast, 
That swells its little breast, so full of song, 
Singing above me, on the mountain-ash. 
And thou too, desert stream ! no pool of thine, 
Though clear as lake in latest summer eve, 
Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe, 
The face, the form divine, the downcast look 
Contemplative ! Behold ! her open palm 
Presses her cheek and brow ! her elbow rests 
On the bare branch of half- uprooted tree, 
That leans towards its mirror ! Who erewhile 
Had from her countenance turned, or looked by 

stealth, 
(For fear is true love's cruel nurse,) he now 
With steadfast gaze and unoffending eye, 
Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes 
Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain. 
E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed, 
But not unheeded gazed : for see, ah ! see, 
The sportive tyrant whh her left hand plucks 
The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow. 
Lychnis, and willow-hert and fox-glove bells : 



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,Pl. 



And suddenly, as one that toys with tune, 
Scatters them on the pool ! Then all the charm 
Is broken — all that phantom-world so fair 
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread. 
And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile, 
Poor youth, who scarcely dar'st lift up thine 

eyes ! 
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, 

soon 
The visions will return ! And lo ! he stays : 
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more 
The pool becomes a mirror ; and behold 
Each wild-flower on the marge inverted there, 
And there the half-uprooted tree — but where, 
where the virgin's snowy arm, that leaned 
On its bare branch ? He turns, and she is gone ! 
Homeward she steals through many a woodland 

maze 
Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth ! 
Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime 
In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook. 
Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou 
Behold' st her shadow still abiding there. 
The Naiad of the mirror ! 

Not to thee, 
O wild and desert stream I belong this tale : 
Gloomy and dark art thou — the crowded firs 



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166 THE FICTXJRE. 

Spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy 

bed, 
Making thee doleful as a cavern- well : 
Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest 
On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild 

stream ! 

This be my chosen haunt — emancipate 
From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone, 
I rise and trace its devious course. O lead, 
Lead me to deeper shades and loneher glooms. 
Lo ! steaUng through the canopy of firs. 
How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock, 
Isle of the river, whose disparted waves 
Dart off asunder with an angry sound, 
How soon to re-unite ! And see ! they meet, 
Each in the other lost and found : and see 
Placeless, as spirhs, one soft water-sun 
Throbbing within them, heart at once and eye I 
Whh its soft neighbourhood of filmy clouds, 
The stains and shadings of forgotten tears, 
Dimness o'erswum with lustre ! Such the hour 
Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds ; 
And hark, the noise of a near waterfall! 
I pass forth into light — I find myself 
Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful 
Of forest-trees, the lady of the woods,) 
Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock 
That overbrows the cataract. How bursts 



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THE PICTURE. 



167 



The landscape on my sight ! Two crescent 

hills 
Fold in behind each other, and so make 
A circular vale, and land-locked, as might seem, 
With brook and bridge, and gray stone cottages, 
Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet, 
The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray, 
Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall. 
How solemnly the pendent ivy-mass 
Swings in its winnow : all the air is calm. 
The smoke from cottage chimneys, tinged with 

light, 
Rises in columns; from the house alone, 
Close by the waterfall, the column slants, 
And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is 

this? 
That cottage, with its slanting chimney -smoke, 
And close beside its porch a sleeping child, 
His dear head pillowed on a sleeping dog- 
One arm between its fore legs, and the hand 
Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers, 
Unfilleted, and of unequal lengths. 
A curious picture with a master's haste 
Sketched on a strip of pinky-silver skin, 
Peeled from the birchen bark ' Divinest maid l 
Yon bark her canvass, and those purple berries 
Her pencil! See, the j lice is scarcely dried 
On the fine skin ! She has been newly here ; 



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THE PICTURE, 




lo ! yon patch of heath has 

couch— 
The pressure still remains ! O blessed couch : 
For this mayest thou flower early, and the sur, 
Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long 
Upon thy purple bells ! O Isabel ! 
Daughter of genius ! stateliest of our maids, 
More beautiful than whom Alcasus wooed, 
The Lesbian woman of immortal song ! 
O child of genius! stately, beautiful, 
And full of love to all, save only me, 
And not ungentle e'en to me ! My heart, 
Why beats it thus ? Through yonder coppice 

wood 
Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straight 

way 
On to her father's house. She is alone ! 
The night draws on— such ways are hard t' 

hit— 
And fit it is I should restore this sketch, 
Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I yearrt 
To keep the relic ? 'twill but idly feed 
The passion that consumes me. Let me haste 
The picture in my hand 
Bhe cannot blame me that I followed her 
And I may be her guide the lonir wood through 









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TO AK UNFORTUNATE WOMAN 169 

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN. 



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WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DATS 
OF HER INNOCENCE. 

Myrtle-leaf that ill besped, 

Finest in the gladsome ray, 
Soiled beneath the common tread, 

Far from thy protecting spray ! 

When the partridge o'er the sheaf 
Whirred along the yellow vale 

Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf! 
Love the dalliance of the gale. 

Lightly didst thou, foolish thing ! 

Heave and flutter to his sighs. 
While the flatterer, on his wing. 

Wooed and whispered thee to rise. 

Gaily from thy mother-stalk 

Wert thou danced and wafted high 

Soon on this unsheltered wnik 
Flung to fade, to ret and die. 



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TO A YOUNG LADY. 



ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER. 

Why need I say, Louisa dear ! 
How glad I am to see you here, 

A lovely convalescent ; 
Risen from the bed of pain and fear, 

And feverish heat incessant. 

The sunny showers, the dappled sky. 
The Uttle birds that warble high. 

Their vernal loves commencing, 
Will better welcome you than I 

With their sweet influencing. 



Believe me, while in bed you lay. 
Your danger taught us all to pray : 

You made us grow devouter ! 
Each eye looked up and seemed to say, 

How can we do without her ? 

Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew- 
They have no need of such as you 

In the place where you were going : 
This world has angels very few, 

And heaven is overflowing ! 



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SOMETHING CHILDISH 
NATURAL. 

WKITTEN IN GERMANY. 

If I had but two little wings, 
And were a little feathery bird, 
To you I'd fly, my dear ! 
But thoughts like these are idle things, 
And I stay here. 

But in my sleep to you I fly : 

I'm always with you in my sleep ! 
The world is all one's own. 
But then one wakes, and where am I ? 
All, all alone. 

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids : 

So I love to wake ere break of day : 

For though my sleep be gone. 

Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, 

And still dreams on. 



ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 

Do you ask what the bird's say ? The sparrow, 

the dove, 
The linnet and thrush sav- " T love and I love !" 




A CHILD S EVENING PRAYER. 

In the winter they're silent — the wind is s i 

strong ; 
What it says, I don't kno\v, but it sings a lou < 

song. 
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunn> 

warm weather. 
And singing, and loving — all come back to 

gether. 
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love 
The green fields below him, the blue sky above 
That he sings, and he sings ; and forever singt 

he— 
" I love my love, and my lofe loves me !" 




A CHILD'S EVENING PRAYER. 

Ere on my bed my hmbs I lay, 
God grant me grace my prayers to say : 
O God ! preserve my mother dear 
In strength and health for many a year; 
And, O ! preserve my father too, 
And may I pay him reverence due ; 
And may I my best thoughts employ 
To be my parents' hope and joy ; 
And, O ! preserve my brothers both 
From evil doings and from sloth, 
And may we always love each other, 
Our friends, our father, and our mother : 



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THE HAPPY HUSBAND. 

And Still, O Lord, to me impart 
An innocent and grateful heart, 
That after my last sleep I may 
Awake to thy eternal day ! 

Amen. 



173 



f^^^^ THE HAPPY HUSBAND. 

Oft, oft methinks, the while with thee 
I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear 
And dedicated name, I hear 

A promise and a mystery, 

A pledge of more than passing life, 
Yea in that very name of wife ! 

i^> A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep ! 

A feeling that upbraids the heart 
With happiness beyond desert. 
That gladness half requests to weep ! 
Nor bless I not the keener sense 
And unalarming turbulence 

Of transient joys, that ask no sting 
From jealous fears, or coy denying ; 
But born beneath Love's brooding wir 

And into tenderness soon dying. 
Wheel out the giddy moment, then 
Resign the soul to love again — 



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174 



KECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. 



A more precipitated vein 

Of notes, that eddy in the flow 

Of smoothest song, they come, they go, 

And leave their sweeter understrain 
Its own sweet self — a love of thee 
That seems, yet cannot greater be ! 



RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. 



%^ How warm this woodland wild recess 

Love surely, hath been breathing here ; 
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear ! 
Swells up, then sinks with faint caress. 
As if to have you yet more near. 



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Eight springs have flown, since last I lay 
On seaward Quantock's heathy hills. 
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills 

Float here and there, like things astray. 
And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills. 



No voice as yet had made the air 
Be music with your name ; yet why 



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RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE, 



That asking look ? that, yearning sigh ? 
That sense of promise every where ? 
Beloved ! flew your spirit by ? 



As when a mother doth explore 

The rose -mark on her long lost child, 
I met, I loved you, maiden mild ! 

As whom I long had loved before— 
So deeply, had I been beguiled. 



You stood before me Hke a thought, 
A dream remembered in a dream. 
But when those meek eyes first did seem 

To tell me, Love within you wrought — 
O Greta, dear domestic stream ! 



Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep 
Has not Love's whisper evermore 
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ? 

Sole voice, when other voices sleep. 
Dear under-sonii in clamor's hour. 




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ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHOF.E 





ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE, 

IFTER LONG ABSENCE, UNDER STRONG MEDlCAl 
RECOMMENDATION NOT TO BATHE. 

God be with thee, gladsome ocean ! 

How gladly greet I thee once more ! 
Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion, 

And men rejoicing on thy shore. 

Dissuading spake the mild physician, 

" Those briny waves for thee are death !" 

But my soul fulfilled her mission, 
And lo ! I breathe untroubled breath ! 

Fashion's pining sons and daughters. 
That seek the crowd they seem to fly, 

Trembling they approach thy waters ; 
And what cares Nature, if they die? 

Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, 
A thousand recollections, bland. 

Thoughts sublime, and stately measures. 
Revisit on thy echoing strand : 

Dreams, (the soul herself forsaking.) 

Tearful raptures, boyish mirth ; 
•Silent adorations, making 

A blessed shadow of this earth ! 



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O ye hopes, that stir within mc, 
Health comes with you from above 

God is with me, God is in me ! 
I cannot die, if hfe be love. 



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HYMN. 

BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 

Besides the rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have 
their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five con- 
spicuous torrents rush down its sides ; and wirhiTs a 
few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major prows 
in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest 
blue." 

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc! 
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful form ! 
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 
How silently ! Around thee and above 
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, 
As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
It is thine ovvn calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
Thy habitation from eternity ! 
12 



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178 HYMN. 

dread and silent mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
Did'st vanish from my thought: entranced in 

prayer 

1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody. 
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it. 
Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my 

thought, 
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy : 
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused. 
Into the mighty \dsion passing — there 
As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven ! 

Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Av/ake, 
Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, 

awake ! 
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale ! 
O struggling with the darkness all the night, 
And visited all night by troops of stars. 
Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter prai?e ! 



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Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? 
Who filled thy countenance with rosy hght ? 
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 




And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad 1 
Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
For ever shattered andthe same for ever? 
Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your 

m, 

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 

And who commanded (and the silence came,) 

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 

Ye ice - falls ! ye that from the mountain's 

brow 
Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, 
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven 
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the 

sun 
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living 

flowers 
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feci ? — 
God 1 let the torrents, hke a shout of nations, 









ISO HYMN. 

Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome 

voice ! 
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like 

sounds ! 
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! 
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! 
Ye hghtnings, the dread arrovvs of the clouds ! 
Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 

Thou too, hoar mount ! with the sky-pointing 

peaks. 
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure 

serene 
Into the depths of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
Thou too again, stupendous mountain ! thou 
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
In adoration, upward from thy base 
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with 

tears, 
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 
To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise, 
Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth ! 



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ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM. 



181 



Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, 
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven, 
Great hierarch ! tell thou the sub..t sky, 
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun. 
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 



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ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM 

ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY, 1796. 

Sweet Flower ! that peeping from thy russet 

stem 
Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort 
This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chatter- 
ing month 
Hath borrowed Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon 

thee 
With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor flower ! 
These are but flatteries of the faithless year. 
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave. 
E'en now the keen North-East is on hs w^ay. 
Flower that must perish ! shall I liken thee 
To some sweet girl of too, too rapid growth 
Nipped by consumption mid untimely charms ? 
Or to Bristowa's bard,* the wondrous boy ! 



* Chatterton. 



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182 



THE JEOLIAN HARP. 



An amaranth, which Earth scarce seemed to own. 
Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong 
Beat it to Earth ? or with indignant grief 
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope, 
Bright flower of Hope killed in the opening bud ? 
Farewell, sweet blossom ! better fate be thine 
And mock my boding ! Dim similitudes 
Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one houi 
From anxious self. Life's cruel taskmaster! 
And the warm wooings of this sunny day 
Tremble along my frame, and harmonize 
The attempered organ, that even saddest 

thoughts 
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes 
Played deftly on a soft-toned instrument. 



THE iEOLIAN HARP. 

COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE. 

My pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek reclined 
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 
To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown 
With white-flowered jasmine, and the broad- 
leaved myrtle, 
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !) 
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with 
lisht 



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THE iEOLIAN HARP. 

Slow saddening round, and mark the star of 
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) 
Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents 
Snatched from yon bean-field ! and the world 

so hushed ! 
The stilly murmur of the distant sea 
Tells us of silence. 

And that simplest lute, 
Placed lengthwise in the clasping casement, hark 
How by the desultory breeze caressed, 
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover 
It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs 
Tempt to repeat the wrong ! And now its 

strings 
Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
Over delicious surges sink and rise, 
Such a soft floating witchery of sound 
As twihght elfins make, when they at eve 
Voyage on gentle gales from fairy-land, 
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers. 
Footless and wild, like birds of paradise, 
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed 

wing ! 
the one hfe within us and abroad, 
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, 
A light in sound, a sound-hke power in light 
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every 

where — 






184 



W 



THE iEOLIAN HARP. 



Methinks, it should have been impossible 
Not to love all things in a world so filled ; 
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air 
Is Music slumbering on her instrument. 

And thus, my love ! as on the midway slope 
Of yonder hill I stretch my hmbs at noon. 
Whilst through my half-closed eye-hds I behold 
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on tho 

main. 
And tranquil muse vipon tranquiUity ; 
Full many a thought uncalled and undetained, 
And many idle flitting phantasies, 
Traverse my indolent and passive brain. 
As wild and various as the random gales 
That swell and flutter on this subject lute ! 

And what if all of animated nature 
Be but organic harps diversely framed, 
That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps 
Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze. 
At once the soul of each, and God of all ? 

But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
Darts, O beloved woman! nor such thoughts 
Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject. 
And biddest me walk humbly with my God. 
Meek daughter in the family of Christ ! 
Well hast thou said and hoUly dispraised 



TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

Thc^e shapings of the unregenerate mind ; 
Bubbles that gUtter as they rise and break 
On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. 
For never guiltless may I speak oi him, 
The Incomprehensible ! save when with awe 
I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels; 
Who with his savmg mercies healed me, 
A sinful and most miserable man, 
Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess 
Peace, and this cot, and thee, heart-honoured 
maid ! 



TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 

OUMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION 
OF A P0E:.I on THE GROWTH OF AN INDIVIDUAL 
MIND. 

Friend of the wise ! and teacher of the good! 
Into my heart have I received that lay 
More than historic, that prophetic lay 
Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) 
Of the foundations and the building up 
Of a human spirit thou hast dared to tell 
What may be told, to the understanding mind 
Revealable ; and what within the mind 
By V'ta' breathings secret as the soul 




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TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 



Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart 
Thoughts all too deep for words ! — 




Theme hard as high ! 
Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears, 
(The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth) 
Of tides obedient to external force, 
And currents self-determined, as might seem, 
Or by some inner power ; of moments awful, 
Now in thy inner life, and now abroad. 
When power streamed from thee, and thy soul 

received 
The Hght reflected, as a hght bestowed — 
Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, 
Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought 
Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens 
Native or outland, lakes and famous hills ! 
Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars 
Were rising ; or by secret mountain-streams, 
The guides and the companions of thy way ! 

Of more than fancy, of the social sense 
Distending wide, and man beloved as man, 
AVhere France in all her towns lay vibrating 
Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst 
Of heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud 
Is visible, or shadow on the main. 
For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded, 
Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, 



^^-^3'., »^i^^V7(, 




^ 




TO WILLIAM WORISWORTH. 

Amid a mighty nation jubilant, 

When from the general heart of human kind 

Hope sprang forth Ulce a full-born deity ! 

Of that dear hope afflicted and struck down, 

So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and 

sure 
From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute 

self, 
With light unwaning on her eyes, to look 
Far on — herself a glory to behold. 
The angel of the vision ! Then (last strain) 
Of duty, chosen laws controlhng choice. 
Action and joy ! — An Orphic song indeed, 
A song divine of high and passionate thoughts 
To their own music chanted! 

O great bard ! 
Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air, 
With steadfast eye I viewed thee in the choir 
Of ever-enduring men. The truly great 
Have all one age, and from one visible space 
Shed influence ! They, both in power and act, 
Are permanent, and time is not with them. 
Save as it worketh for them, they in it. 
Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old. 
And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame 
Among the archives of mankind, thy work 
Makes audible a Unked lay of truth. 
Of truth profound a sweet continuous lay, 




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6^ 



188 



TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 




Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes! 

4h ! as I listened with a heart forlorn, 

The pulses of my being beat anew : 

And even as life returns upon the drowned, 

Life's joy rekindhng roused a throng of pains — 

Keen pangs of love, awakening as a babe 

Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; 

And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of 

hope ; 
And hope that scarce would know itself from 

fear ; 
Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain, 
And genius given, and knowledge won in vain ; 
And all which I had culled in wood- walks wild. 
And all which patient toil had reared, and all. 
Commune with thee had opened out — bu' 

flowers 
Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier. 
In the same coffin, for the self-same grave ! 



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That way no more ! and ill beseems it me, 
Who came a welcomer in herald's guise, 
Singing of glory, and futurity, 
To wander back on such unhealthful road. 
Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And ill 
Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreath? 
Strev/ed before thy advancing ! 



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TO -WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



189 



Nor do thou, 
Sage bard ! impair the memoiy of that hour 
Of my communion with thy nobler mind 
By pity or grief, already felt too long I 
Nor let my words import more blame than 

needs. 

The tumult rose and ceased : for peace is nigh 
Where wisdom's voice has found a listening 

heart. 
Amid the howl of more than wintiy storms, 
The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours 
Already on the wing. 

Eve followed eve. 
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of 

home 
Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake hailed 
And more desired, more precious for thy song, 
In silence hstening, like a devout child. 
My soul lay passive, by thy various strain 
Driven as in surges now beneath the stars, 
'With momentary stars of my own birth, 
Fair constellated foam,* still darting off 

* "A beautiful white cloud of foam at niomentary 
intervals coursed by the side of the vessel with a 
roar, and little stars of flame danced and sparkled 
and went out in it : and every now and then liaht 
detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted off 
from the vessel's side, each with its own small con- 



C' 




190 



THE NIGHTINGAIE. 



Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea, 
Outspread and bright, yet sweUing to the moon. 

And when — friend ! my comforter and guide ! 
Strong in thyself, and powerful to give 

strength ! — 
Thy long sustained song finally closed, 
And thy deep voice had ceased — yet thou thysoli 
Wert still before my eyes, and round us both 
That happy vision of beloved faces — 
Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its clcss 
I sate, my being blended in one thought 
(Thought was it ? or aspiration ? or resolve ?) 
Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound — 
And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. 



^THE NIGHTINGALE. 

A CONVEKSATION POEM.— APRIL, 1798. 

No cloud, no relic of the sunken day 
Distinguishes the west, no long thin slip 
Of sullen hght, no obscure trembhng hues. 
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! 
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath^ 

stellation, over the sea, and scoured out of sight lil i 



a Tartar troop over a wilderness 
p. 220. 



Frien* 



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THE NIGHTINGA E. 




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191 



But hear no murmuring : it flows silently, 

O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 

A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim, 

Yet let us think upon the vernal showers 

That gladden the green earth, and we shall fmd 

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 

And hark ! the nightingale begins its song, 

" Most musical, most melancholy" bird!* 

A melancholy bird ! Oh ! idle thought ! 

In nature there is nothing melancholy. 

But some night- wandering man, whose heart 

was pierced 
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 
Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
(And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with 

himself, 
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
Of his own sorrow,) he, and such as he. 
First named these notes a melancholy strain. 
And many a poet echoes the conceit ; 
Poet who hath been buildhig up the rhyme 



/?v 



♦ ^'^ Most musical, most melanchohj." This passa£re 
In Milton possesses an excellence far superior to tl>.it 
of mere description. It is spoken in the character 
of the melancholy man, and has therefore a dramatic 
propriety. The author makes this remark, to rescue 
himself from the charge of having alluded with 
levity, to a l-jie in Milton, 



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vcw? 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 



When he had better far have stretched hid hnab.s 
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, 
By sun or moon-light, to the influxes 
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 
Should share in Nature's immortality, 
A venerable thing ! and so his song 
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
Be loved hke Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
And youths and maidens most poetical, 
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring 
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 

My friend, and thou, our sister! we have 
learnt 
A different lore : we may not thus profane 
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
And joyance ! 'Tis the merry nightingale 
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
As he were fearful that an April night 
Would be too short for him to utter forth 
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
Of all its music J 












THE NIGHTINGALE. 



193 



v-Q 



3" 




And I know a grove 
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
This grove is wild with tanghng underwood, 
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the 

paths. 
But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
So many nightingales ; and far and near, 
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove. 
They answer and provoke each other's soiig, 
VViih skirmish and capricious passagings. 
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug. 
And one low piping sound more sweet than 

all- 
Stirring the air with such a harmony, 
That should you close your eye?, you might 

almost 
Forget it was not day ! On moon-lit bushes, 
"Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed. 
You may perchance behold them on the twigs. 
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright 

and full, 
Ghstening, while many a glow-worm in the 

shade 
Lights up her love-torch. 



A most gentle 
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
13 



maid, 



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;x 



194 THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 

(Even like a lady vov^ ed and dedicate 

To something more than Nature in the t?Tove) 

Glides through the pathways ; she knows \\\ 

their notes, 
That gentle maid ! and oft a moment's space, 
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 
Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the moon 
E?iierging, hath awakened earth and sky 
With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 
As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
A hundred airy harps ! and she hath watched 
Many a nightingale perched giddily 
On blossomy twig still swinging irom the breeze. 
And to that motion tune his wanton song 
Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 

Farewell, warbler ! till to-morrow eve, 
And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farC' 

well! 
We have been loitering long and pleasantly, 
And now for our dear homes. — That strain 

again ! 
Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe. 
Who, capable of no articulate sound, 
Mars all things with his imitative lisp, 
How he would place his hand beside his ear, 
His httle hand, the small forellnger up, 



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ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. 

And bid us listen I And I deem it wise 

To nialve him Nature's playmate. He kiiuws 

well 
The evening-star; and once, when he awoke 
In most distressful mood (some inward pain 
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's 

dream, — ) 
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot, 
And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once, 
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silent ly,_ 
While his fair eyes, that swam with undroppcd 

tears 
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam ! Well ! — 
It is a father's tale : But if that heaven 
Should give me life, his childhood shall grov/ ujj 
Famihar with these songs, that with the night 
He may associate joy. — Once more, farewe! 
Sweet nightingale ! Once more, my friends 

farewell. 



ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. 




Tranquillity ! thou better name 
Than all the family of Fame ! 
Thou ns'er wilt leave my riper a 
To low intrigue, or factious rage 




X' ^^ 



196 



ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. 



For oh ! dear child of thoughtful Truth, 
To thee I gave my early youth, 

And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore; 

Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with i' 
roar. 
Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, 
On him but seldom, Power divine. 
Thy spirit rests ! Satiety 
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee. 
Mock the tired worldling. Idle hope 
And dire remembrance interlope. 

To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind : 

The bubble floats before, the spectre stalk 
behind. 



«s' 




•X 



But me thy gentle hand will lead 

At morning through the accustomed mead ; 

And in the sultry summer's heat 

Will build me up a mossy seat ; 

And when the gust of autumn crowds. 

And breaks the busy midnight clouds, 

Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart 
attune, 

Light M the busy clouds, cairn as the gliding 
moon. 



The feeling heart, the searching soul, 
To thee I dedicate the whole ! 





'f%^^ 



And while within myself I trace 
The g;reatness of some future race, 
Aloof with liennit-eye I scan 
The present works of present man — 
A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, 
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile 



SONNET. 

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD ; THE AtT- 
THOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE 
BIRTH OF A SON, SEPT. 20, 1796. 

Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll 
Which makes the present (while the flash 

doth last) 
Seem a mere semblance of some unknown 
past, 
Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul 
Self- questioned in her sleep ; and some have 
said 
We hved, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore. 
my sweet baby ! when I reach my door, 
If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead, 
(As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear) 
I think that I should struggle to believe 
Thou wert a spirit, (o this nether sphere 




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Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve ; 
Did'st scream, then spring to meet heaven's 
quick reprieve, 
While we wept idly o'er thy little bier ! 



SONNET. 

TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN 
THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO 
ME. 

Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when 
first 

I scanned that face of feeble infancy : 
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst 

All I had been, and all my child might be I 
But when I saw it on its mother's arm, 

And hanging at her bosom (she the while 

Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) 
Then I was thrilled and melted, and most warm 
Impressed a father's kiss : and all beguiled 
'Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, 

I seemed to see an angel-form appear — 
'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild ! 

So for the mother's sake the child was dear, 
And dearer was the mother for the child. 






■„^ 



'^^ 



THE VIEGI:?'S CRADLE-HYiMN. 19S 




f^' THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE HYMN. 

COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN, 1! 
ROMAN. CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY. 



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DoRMi, Jesu! mater ride t 
Quae tarn dulcem somnum videt, 

Dormi, Jesu! blandule! 
Si non dermis, mater plorat," 
Inter fila cantans orat, 

Blande, veni, somnule. 






Sleep, sweet babe ! my cares beguiling; 
Mother sits beside thee smiling ; 

Sleep, my darling, tenderly ! 
If thou sleep not, mother mourneth, 
Singing as her wheel she turneth : 

Come, soft slumber, balmily ! 






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200 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. — ^ME1,ANCH0LY. 



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EPITAFH ON AN INFANT. 

Its balmy lips thu infant blest 
Relaxing from its mother's breast, 
How sweet it heaves the happy sigh 
Of innocent satiety ! 

And such my infant's latest sigh ' 
O tell, rude stone ! the passer-by, 
That here the pretty babe doth lie. 
Death sang to sleep with lullaby. 



MELANCHOLY. 



A FRAGMENT, 



Stretch'd on a mouldered abbey's broaden 
wall, 
Where running ivies propped the ruins steep- - 
Her folded arms wrapping her tattered pall, 
Had Melancholy mus'd herself to sleep. 
The fern was press' d beneath her hair, 
The dark green adder's tongue was there ; 
And still as past the flagging sea-gale weak. 
The long lank leaf bowed fluttering o'er hei 
cheek. 



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TELL S BIRTH-PLACE. 

That pallid cheek was flushed : her eager look 
Beamed eloquent m slumber ! Inly wrought, 

Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook. 
And her bent forehead worked with troubled 
thought. 
Strange was the dream 



TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE. 



IMITATED FROM STOLBERG. 



Mark this holy chapel well ! 
The birth-place, this, of William Tell. 
Here, where stands God's altar dread, 
Stood his parents' marriage-bed. 



V^ VA 











202 tell's birth-place. 

,^. But God had destined to do more 

/ ^ Through him, than through an armed power 

IV. 

God gave him reverence of laws, 

Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause — 

A spirit to his rocks akin, 

The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein ! 



To Nature and to Holy Writ 
Alone did God the boy commit : 
Where flashed and roared the torrent, oft 
His soul found wings, and soared aloft ! 



The straining oar and chamois chase 
Had formed his limbs to strength and grace 
On wave and wind the boy would toss, 
Was great, nor knew how great he was ! 




He knew not that his chosen hand, 
Made strong by God, his native land 
Would rescue from the shameful yoke 
Of slavery — the which he broke 1 



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A CHRISTMAS CAROL, 



The shepherds went their fiasty way, 

And found the lowly stable-shed 
Where the Virgin- Mother lay : 
And now they checked their eager tread 
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, 
A mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung. 



They told her how a glorious light. 

Streaming from a heavenly throng, 

Around them shone, suspending night ! 

While sweeter than a mother's song, 

Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth. 

Glory to God on high ! and Peace on earth. 



She Hstened to the tale divine, 

And closer still the Babe she prest ; 
And while she cried, the Babe is mine ! 
The milk rushed faster to her breast : 
Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn ; 
Peace, Peace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace is 
born. 



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A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 



Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, 

Poor, simple, and of low estate ! 
That strife should vanish, battle cease, 
O why should this thy soul elate ? 
Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story, — 
Did'st thou ne'er love to hear of fame and 
glory ? 



And is not War a youthful king, 

A stately hero clad in mail ? 
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ; 
Him earth's majestic monarchs hail 
Their friend, their playmate ! and his bold bright 

eye 
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. 



" Tell this in some more courtly scene, 

To maids and youths in robes of state ! 
I am a woman poor and mean, 
And therefore is my soul elate. 
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, 
That from the aged father tears his child ! 



(^ 




^\. 





HUMAN LIFE. 



205 



" A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, 
He kills the sire and starves the son ; 
The husband kills, and fi-om her board 
Steals all the widow's toil had won ; 
Plunders God's world of beauty ; rends away 
All safety from the night, all comfort from the 
day. 



" Then wisely is my soul elate, 

That strife should vanish, battle cease : 
I'm poor and of a low estate, 
The Mother of the Prince of Peace. 
Joy rises in me like a summer's morn : 
Peace, Peace on earth ! the Prince of Peace is 
born." 




HUMAN LIFE 

ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY. 

If dead, we ceajse to be ; if total gloom 

Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare 

As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom, 
Whose sound and motion not alone declare. 




206 



HUMAN LIF; 



But are their whole of being ! If the breath 

Be life itself, and not its task and tent, 
If even a soul like Milton's can know death ; 

O Man ! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant. 
Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! 

Surplus of Nature's dread activity, 
Which, as she gazed on some nigh-flnished 

vase. 
Retreating slow, with meditative pause. 

She formed with restless hands uncon- ' 
sciously ! 
Blank accident ! nothing's anomaly I 

If rootless thus, thus substancelags thy state, 
Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy 

fears, 
The counter-weights ! — Thy laughter and thy 
tears 

Mean but themselves, each fittest to create, 
And to repay the other ! Why rejoices 

Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good ? 

Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's 
hood. 
Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, 

Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf. 
That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold ? 
Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withhold 

These costless shadows of thy shadowy self? 
Be sad ! be glad ! be neither 1 seek, or shun ! 









SEPARATION 




/ \/f~ Thou hast no reason why ! Thou can'st have 
n~J none ; 

k^JL ^ Thy being's being is contradiction. 



SEPARATION. 

A swoPvDED man whose trade is blood, 
In grief, in anger, and in fear, 

Through jungle, swamp, and torrent flood 
I seek the wealth you hold so dear ! 

The dazzling charm of outward form, 
The power of gold, the pride of birlh, 

Have taken a woman's heart by storm — 
Usurp'd the place of inward worth. 

Is not true love of higher price 

Than outward form, though fair to 

Wealth's ghttering fairy-dome of ice, 
Or echo of proud ancestry ? — 

! Asra, Asra ! couldst thou see 

Into the bottom of my heart. 
There's such a mine of love for thee; 

As almost might supply desert ! 

(This separation is, alas ! 

Too great a punishment to bear ; 
! take my life, or let me pass 

That Ufe, that happy life, with her!) 





203 



ON TAKING LEAVE OF 



The perils, erst with steadfast eye 
Encounter'd, now I shrink to see — 

Oh ! I have heart enough to die — 
Not half enough to part from thee ! 



ON TAKING LEAVE OF 

To know, to esteem, to love — and then to part 
Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart i 
O for some dear abiding place of love, 
O'er which my spirit, like the mother dove, 
Might brood with warming wings ! — fair as 

kind. 
Were but one sisterhood with you combined, 
(Your very image they in shape and mind) 
Far rather would I sit in solitude, 
The forms of memory all my mental food. 
And dream of you, sweet sisters, (ah, not 

mine !) 
And only dream of you, (ah, aream and pine !) 
Than have the presence, and partake the pride, 
And shine in the eye of all the world beside ' 



.^f^/^^ , ^''^ 




THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALL. 209 

THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALI = 

AN ALLEGORY. 



P-i 



I. 

He too has flitted from his secret nest, 
Hope's last and dearest child without a name !— 
Has flitted from me, Uke the warmthless flame, 
That makes false promise of a place of rest 
To the tir'd pilgrim's still beUeving mind ; — 
Or Uke some elfin knight in kingly court, 
Who having won all guerdons in his sport, 
Glides out of view, and whither none can find ! 



Yes ! he hath flitted from me — with wliat aim, 
Or why, I know not ! 'twas a home of bliss, 
And he was innocent, as the pretty shame 
Of babe, that tempts and shuns the menaced 

kiss, 
From its twy-cluster'd hiding place of snow ! 
Pure as the babe, I ween, and all aglow 
As the dear hopes, that swell the mother's 

breast — 
Her eyes down gazing o'er her clasped charge ; 
Yet gay as that twice happy father's kiss, 
H 



^1,^^ 



<C-^ 




210 THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALL 

That well might glance aside, yet never miss, 
Where the sweet mark emboss'd so sweet a 

targe — 
Twice wretched he who hath been doubly blest ! 



Like a loose blossom on a gusty night 
He flitted from me — and has left behind 
(As if to them his faith he ne'er did plight) 
Of ehher sex and answerable mind 
Two playmates, twin-births of his foster- 
dame : — 
The one a steady lad (Esteem he hight) 
And Kindness is the fjentler sister's name. 
Dim likeness now, though fair she be and good 
Of that bright boy who hath us all forsook ; — 
But in his full-eyed aspect when she stood, 
And while her face reflected every look. 
And in reflection kindled — she became 
So like him, that almost she seem'd the same . 



Ah ! he is gone, and yet will not depart ! — 
Is with me still, yet I from him exil'd! 
For still there lives within my secret heart 
The magic image of the magic child. 
Which there he made up-grow by his strong art, 






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THE PANG MOBE SHARP THAN ALL 




As m that crystal' orb— wise Merlin's fear, — 
The wondrous "World of Glass," wherein 

inisled 
All long'd for things their beings did repeat 
And there he left it, like a sylph beguiled. 
To live and yearn and languish incomplete ! 



Can wit of man a heavier grief reveal? 
Can sharper pang from hate or scorn arise ? — 
Yes ! one more sharp there is that deeper lies. 
Which fond Esteem but mocks when he would 

heal. 
Yet neither scorn nor hate did it devise, 
But sad compassion and atoning zeal ! 
One pang more blighting-keen than hope be- 
trayed ! 
And this it is my woful hap to feel, 
When at her brother's best, the twin-born maid 
With face averted and unsteady eyes. 
Her truant playmate's faded robe puts on ; 
And inly shrinking from her own disguise 
Fnacts the faery boy that's lost and gone. 
O worse than all I O pang all pangs above 
Is kindness counterfeiting absent love ! 



* Farie Queeno, b. hi. c, 2, s. 19. 







THE PAINS OF SLEEP 




THE PAINS OF SLEEP. 

Eke on my bed my limbs I lay, 

It hath not been my use to pray 

With moving lips or bended knees : 

But silently by slow degrees, 

My spirit I to love compose , 

In humble trust mine eye-lids close, 

With reverential resignation, 

No wish conceived, no thought exprest, 

Only a sense of supplication ; 

A sense o'er all my soul imprest 

That I am weak, yet not unblest. 

Since in me, round me, every where 

Eternal strength and wisdom are. 

But y ester-night I prayed aloud 

In anguish and in agony. 

Up-starting from the fiendish crowd 

Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me : 

A lurid light, a tramphng throng, 

Sense of intolerable wrong, 

And whom I scorned, those only strong ! 

Thirst of revenge, the powerless vvull 

Still baffled, and yet burning still ! 

Desire with loathing strangely mixed 

On wild or hateful objects fixed. 









-':^>'; 




m ^^ 




THE PAINS OF SLEEP. 

Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl ! 
And shame and terror over all I 
Deed to be hid which were not hid, 
Which all confused I could not know, 
Whether I suffered, or I did: 
For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe, 
My own or others still the same 
Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame. 

So two nights passed : the night's dismay 
Saddened and stunned the coming day. 
Sleep, the wide blessing seemed to me 
Distemper's worst calamity. 
The third night, when my own loud scream 
Had waked me from the fiendish dream, 
O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, 
I wept as I had been a child ; 
And having thus by tears subsued 
My anguish to a milder mood, 
Such punishments, I said, were due 
To natures deephest stained with sin,- 
For aye entempesting anew 
The unfathomable hell within 
The horror of their deeds to view, 
To know and loathe, yet wish and do ! 
Such griefs with such men well agree. 
But wherefore, wherefore fall on me ? 
To be beloved is all I need. 
And whom I love, I love indeed. 



.^J^ 




DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE, 



THE ONIY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING LIFE. 
A SOLILOQUY. 

Unchanged within to see all changed without 
Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. 
Yet why at others' wanings should' st thou fret ? 
Then only might'st thou feel a just regret, 
Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light 
In selfish forethought of neglect and shght. 
O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed, 
While, and on whom, thou may'st — shine on ! 

nor heed 
Whether the object by reflected light ^ 
Return thy radiance or abso'rb it quite : 
And though thou notest from thy safe recess _ 
Old friends burn dim, hke lamps in noisome air 
Love them for what they are ; nor love them less 
Because to thee they are not what they were. 



■7! 



.•i^t. 




PHANTOM OR FACT 



A DIALOGUE IN VERSE 



A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed, 
And such a feeding calm its presence shed, 
A tender love so pure from earthly leaven 
That I unnethe the fancy might control, 
'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven, 
Wooing its gentle way into my soul ! 
But ah! the change — It had not stirr'd, and 

yet — 
Alas ! that change how fain would I forget I 
That shrinking back, hke one thai had mistook ! 
That weary, wandering, disavowing look I 
'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame. 
And still, methought, I knew, it was the same ! 



This riddling tale, to what does it belong { 
Is't history ? vision ? or an idle song? 
Or rather say at once, within what space 
Of time this wild disastrous change tool 
place ? 



^f^.^S^ 




WORK WITHOUT HOPE. 

LINES COMPOSED 21ST FEBRUARY, 1837. 

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their 

lair — 
The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing — 
And Winter slumbering in the open air, 
Wears on his smiHng face a dream of Spring ! 
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing. 
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths 

blow, 
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar 

flow. 
Bloom, O ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye 

may, 
For me ye bloom not I Glide, rich streams, 

away ! 
With hps unbrightened, wreathless brow, I 

stroll : 
And would you learn the spells that drowse ray 

soul ? 
Work without hope dra'.vs nectar in a sieve, 
And hope without an object cannot live. 



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rOUTH AND AUh. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 

Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, 
Where Hope clung feedijig, like a bee — 
Both were mine ! Life went a maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 

When I was young ' 
When I was young ? — Kh, woful when! 
Ah ! for the change 'twixt now and then ! 
This breathing house not built with hands, 
This body that does me grievous wrong 
O'er aery cliffs and gUttering sands, 
How lightly then it flashed along : — 
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
Nought cared this body for wind or weathei 
When Youth and I liv'd in't together. 

Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ! 
Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
! the joys, that came down shower-Uke, 
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 

Ere I was old ! 
Ere I was old ? Ah, woful ere, 
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here ! 



[f^..'^> 



^ 




YOUTH AND ACiE. 

Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
'Tis known, that thou and I were one; 
I'll think it but a fond conceit — 
It cannot be, that thou art gone ! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toU'd :— 
And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
What strange disguise hast now put on 
To make believe, that thou art gone? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips, 
This drooping gait, this altered size : 
But springtide blossoms on thy lips. 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! 
Life is but thought : so think I will 
That Youth and I are house-mates slill. 

Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 
But the tears of mournful eve ! 
Where no hope is, life's a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve. 

When we are old: 
That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking-leave. 
Like some poor nigh-related guest, 
That may not rudely be dismist, 
Yet hath outstay'd his welcome whily, 
And tells the jest without the smile. 




'^i^. 




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LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP OPPOSITE 



Hek attachment may differ from yours in de- 
gree, 

Provided they are both of one kind ; 
But Friendship how tender so ever it be 

Gives no accord to Love, however refin'd. 

Love, that meets not with Love, its true nature 
revealing. 

Grows asham'd of itself, and demurs : 
If you cannot lift hers up to your state of feeling, 

You must lower down your state to hers. 




DESIRE. 

Where true Love burns, Desire is Love's pure 

flame ; 
It is the reflex of our earthly frame, 
That takes its meaning from the nobler part. 
And but translates the language of the heart. 



ifK %i 





WHY LOVE IS BLIND 




TO A LADY 



OFFENDED BY A SPORTIVE OBSEKVATION THAT 
WOMEN HAVE NO SOULS. 

Nay, dearest Anna I why so grave? 

I said, you had no soul, 'tis true I 
For what you are, you cannot have : 

' fis I, that have one since I first had you 



WHY LOVE IS BLIND. 

I HAVE heard of reasons manifold 
Why Love must needs be bUnd, 

But this the best of all I hold — 
His eyes are in his mind. 

What outward form and feature are 

He guesseth but in part ; 
But what within is good and fair 

He seeth with the heart. 



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THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO. 

Of late, in one of those most weary hours, 
When hfe seems emptied of all genial powers, 
A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known 
May bless his happy lot, I sate alone ; 
And from the numbing spell to win relief, 
Call'd on the past for thought of glee or grief. 
In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee, 
I sate and cowered o'er my own vacancy ! 
And as I watched the dull continuous ache, 
Which, all else slumbering, seemed alone to 
wake ; 

friend ! long wont to notice yet conceal. 
And soothe by silence v;hat words cannot healj 

1 but half saw that quiet hand of thine 
Place on my desk this exquisite design, 
Boccaccio's Garden and its faery, 

The love, the joyance, and the gallantry ! 
An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm, 
Framed in the silent poesy of form ; 
Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep 

Emerging from a mist ; or like a stream 
Of music soft that not dispels the sleep. 

But casts in happier moulds the slumbeier's 
dream. 



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THE aARD2N OF BOCCACCIO. 223 

Gazed by an idle eye with silent might 

The picture stole upon my inwaid sight. 

A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my 

chest, 
As though an infant's finger touch' d my breast ; 
And one by one Ci knew not whence) were 

brought 
All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my 

thought 
In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost 
Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost ; 
Or charmed my youth, that, kindled from 

above, 
Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ; 
Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan 
Of manhood, musing what and whence is man ! 
Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn 

caves 
Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and 

waves ; 
Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids, 
That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades ; 
Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast ; 
Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest. 
Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array. 
To high-church pacmg on the great saint's day ; 
And many a verse which to myself I sang, 
That woke the tear yet stole away the pang. 






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224 



THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO. 



Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd. 
And last, a matron now, of sober mien, 
Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen, 
Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd 
Even in my dawn of thought — Philosophy ; 
Though then unconscious of herself, pardie, 
She bore no other name than Poesy ; 
And, hke a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee, 
That had but newly left a mother's knee, 
Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and 

stone, 
As if with elfin playfellows well known, 
And life revealed to innocence alone. 

Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry 
Thy fair creation with a mastering eye. 
And all awake ! And now in fix'd gaze stand, 
Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ; 
Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear 
See fragment shadows of the crossing deer ; 
And with that serviceable nymph I stoop 
The crystal from its restless pool to scoop. 
I see no longer ! I myself am there. 
Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet shsre. 
'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing 

strings. 
And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings : 
Or pause and listen to the tinkUng bells 
Fr "-.n the high tower, and think that there she 

dwells. 






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THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO. 225 

With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest, 
1 // ^ And breathe an air like hie that swells my chest. 

The brightness of the world, O thou once iVee, 
And always fair, rare land of courtesy I 
O Florence ! with the Tuscan fields and hiils, 
And famous Arno, fed with all their rills; 
^^ T.hou brightest star of star-bright Italy ! 

Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine. 
The golden corn, the olive, and the viae. 
Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old, 
And forests, where, beside his leafy hold 
The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn, 
And whets his tusks against the gnarled th'jrn : 
Palladian palace wuh its storied halls ; -- 
Fountains, where Love lies listening to their 

falls ; 
Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span, 
And Nature makes her happy home with man ; 
Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed 
With its own rill, on its own spangled bed. 
And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its 

head, 
A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn 
Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn ;- 
Thine all dehghts, and every muse is thine ; 
And more than all, the embrace and intertwine 
Of all whh all in gay and twinkhng dance ! 
15 



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THF GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO. 

Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance. 
See ! Boccace sits, anfoldmg on his knees 
The new-found roll of old Maeonides ;* 
But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart. 
Peers Ovid's holy book of Love's sweet smart !f 

O all-enjoying and all-blending sage, 
Long be it mine to con thy mazy page, 
Where, half conceal'd, the eye of fancy views 
Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious 
to thy muse ! 




* Boccaccio claimed for himself the glory of having 
first introduced the works of Homer to his country- 
men. .- 

t I know few more striking or more interesting 
proofs of the overwhelming influence which ihe 
study of the Greek and Roman classics exercised on 
the judgments, feelings, and imaginations of the 
literati of Europe at the commencement of the resto- 
ration of literature, than the passage in the Filocojio 
of Boccaccio : where the sage instructer, Racheo, 
as soon as the young prince and the beautiful girl 
Biancofiore had learned their letters, sets them to 
study the Holy Book, Ovid's Art of Love. "Inco- 
mincit) Racheo a mettere il suo officio in esecuzionc 
con intera soUecitudine. E loro, in breve tempo, 
insegnato a conoscer le lettere, fece leggere il saiito 
libro d'Ov% idio, nel quale il somnio poeta niosua, 
come i santi fuochi di Venere si debbano ne' freddi 
cilori accendere." 



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Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks, 
And see in Dian's vest between the ranks 
Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes 
The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves, 
With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves * 



CHARITY IN THOUGHT. 

To praise men. as good, and to take them for 
suchj 
Is a grace, which no soul can mete out to a 
tittle ;— 
Of which he who has not a Httle too much. 
Will by charity's gage surely have much too 
Uttle. 



■^, 



^ 



HUMILITY THE MOTHER OF 
CHARITY. 

Fraii. creatures are we all ! To be the best, 
Is but the fewest faults to have : — 

Look thou then to thyself, and leave the rest 
To God, thy conscience, and the grave. 









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BEARETH ALL THINGS. 






ON AN INFANT 

WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM. 

"Be, rather than be called, a child of God, 
Death whispered! — with assenting nod, 
Its head upon its mother's breast, 

The baby bowed, without demur— 
Of the kingdom of the blest 

Possessor, not inheritor. 



BEARETH ALL THINaS. — 2 Cor 

Gently I took that which ungently came, 
And without scorn forgave : — Do thou the same. 
A wrong done to thee think a cat's eye spark 
Thou would' St not see, were not thine own heart 

dark. 
Thine own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for 

sin, 
Fear that — the spark self-kindled from within, 
Which blown upon, will bUnd thee with its 

glare, 
Or smother'd, stifle thee with noisome air. 
Clap on the extinguisher, pull up the bhnds, 





MY BAPTISMAL BIRTH-DAY. 



229 



And soon the ventilated spirit finds 

Its natural daylight. If a foe '""ve kenn'd, 

Or worse than foe, an alienated triend, 

A rib of dry rot in thy ship's stout side, 

Think it God's message, and in humble pride 

With heart of oak replace it ; — thine the gains — 

Give him the rotten timber for his pains ! 



MY BAPTISMAL BIRTH-DAY. 

God's child in Christ adopted, — Christ my all, — 
What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, 

rather 
Than forfeit that blest name, by which I call 
The Holy One, the Almighty God, my 

Father ?— 
Father ! in Christ we live, and Christ in Thee — 
Eternal Thou, and everlasting We. 
The heir of heaven, henceforth I fear not death : 
In Christ I live ! in Christ I draw the breath 
Of the true hfe ! — Let then earth, sea, and sky 
Make war against me ! On my heart I show 
Their mighty Master's seal. In vain they try 
To end my life, than can but end its woe. — 
Is that a death-bed where a Christian lies? — 
Y/is ! but not his — 'tig Death itself there dies. 






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230 LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. 



EPITAPH. 

Stop, Christian passer-by ! — Stop, child of God, 
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod 
A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he. — 
O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C, 
That he who many a year with toil of breath 
Found death in life, may here find life in death ! 
Mercy for praise — to be forgiven for fame 
He ask'd, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou 
the same ! 

9th November, 1833. 



LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT- 
ROOM. 

Nor cold, nor stern, my soul ! yet I detest 
These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy 
throng, 

Heaves the proud harlot her dis'ended breast, 
In intricacies of laborious song. 

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign 
To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint ; 



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LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. 23 

-. But when the long-breathed smger's up;ri'.ieJ 

"; strain 

Bursts m a squall — they gape for wondennc.ii. 

Hark ! the deep buzz of vanity and hate ! 

Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer 
My lady eyes some maid of humbler stale, 
^ While the pert captain, or the primmer priest, 

Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. 

O give me, from this heartless scene released, 

To hear our old musician, blind and gray, 
(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I 
kissed,) 
His Scottish tunes and warUke marches play, 
By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night, 
I The while I dance amid the tedded hay 

With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light. 

Or lies the purple evening on the bay 
Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide 

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees. 
For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied. 

On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at 
ease, 
And while the lazy boat swings to and fro, 

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, 
That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears. 

But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers, 



C< 








232 



TO A LADY. 




And the gust pelting on tlic out-house shed 
Makes the cock shrilly on the rain-storm crow, 
To hear ihce sing some ballad full of woe, 
Ballad of shipwrecked sailor floating dead, 

Whom his own true-love buried in the sands ! 
Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice rcmeasuies 
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 

The things of Nature utter ; birds or trees 
Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, 
Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-planl 
weaves, 
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 



TO A LADY. 

WITH FALCONEK's "SHIPWRECK." 

Ah ! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams, 
In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice ; 

Nor while half-listening, mid delicious dreams. 
To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ; 

Nor yet wdiile gazing in subhmer mood 
On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell ; 

Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed 
strewed, 
Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell; 



71 



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TO A LADY 



Our sea-bard sang this song ! 
sings, 
And sings for thee, sweet friend ! Hark, 
Pity, hark ! 
Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's 
v/ings, 
Now groans, and shivers, the replunging 
bark ! 




" Chng to the shrouds !" In vain ! the breakers 
roar — 
Death shrieks ! With two alone of all his 
clan 
Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, 
No classic roam.er, but a shipwrecked man! 

Say then, what muse inspired these genial 
strains, 
And lit his spirit to so bright a flame ? 
The elevating thought of suffered pains, 

Which gentle hearts shall mourn ; but chief 
the name 



Of gratitude ! remembrances of friend, 

Or absent or no more ! shades of the Past, 

Which Love makes substance ! Hence to thee 
I send, 
dear as long as life and memory last ! 







a 



234 



REFLECTIONS. 



I send with deep regards of heart and head, 
Sweet maid for friendship formed ! this work 
to thee : 
And thou, the while thoii canst not choose but 
shed 
A tear for Falconer, wilt remen^ber me. 



REFLECTIONS 

ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF EETIRE.MENT. 




P) 



Sermoni propriora.— Hon. 

Low was our pretty cot : our tallest rose 
Peeped at the chamber-window. We could liear 
At silent noon, and eve, and early morn, 
The sea's faint murmur. In the open air 
Our myrtles blossomed ; and across the porch 
Thick jasmins twined : the little landscape round 
Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye. 
It was a spot which you might aptly call 
The Valley of Seclusion ! Once I saw 
(Hallowing his sabbath-day by quietness) 
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, 
Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calmed 
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse 
With wiser feehngs: for he paused, and looked 
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around, 



^^ 



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REFLECTIONS. 

Then eyed our cottage, and gazed round again, 
And sighed, and said, it was a blessed place. 
And we were blessed. Oft v.'ith patient ear 
Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note 
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 
Gleaming on sunny wings) in whispered tones 
I've said to my beloved, " Such, sweet girl ! 
The inobtrusive song of happiness. 
Unearthly minstrelsy ! then only heard 
When the soul seeks to hear ; when all is 

hushed, 
And the heart listens !" 

But the time, when first 
From that low dell, steep up the stony mount 
I climbed with perilous toil and reached the top, 
Oh ! what a goodly scene ! Here the bleak 

mount. 
The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with 

sheep ; 
Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny 

fields ; 
And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrowed. 
Now winding bright and full, with naked banks ; 
And seats, and lawns, the abbey and the wood. 
And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire; 
The channel there, the islands and white sails, 
Dim coasts, and cloud-Hke hills, and shoreless 

ocean — 






C) 






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H' 




236 



KEFLECTIONS. 



It seemed like Omnipresence ! God, metliought, 
Had built him tliere a temple : the whole worlf*- 
Seemed imaged in its vast circumference, 
No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart. 
Blest hour ! It was a luxury, — to be ! 



Ah ! quiet dell ! dear cot, and mount sublime ! 
I was constrained to quit you. Was it right, 
While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled, 
That I should dream away the entrusted hours 
On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart 
With feelings all too delicate for use ? 
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye 
Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth : 
And he that works me good with unmoved face. 
Does it but half: he chills me while he aids, 
My benefactor, not my brother man ! 
Yet even this, this cold beneficence 
Praise, praise it, O my soul ! oft as thou 

scann'st 
The sluggard Pity's vision- weaving tribe ! 
Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the 

WTetched, 
Nursing in some deUcious soHtude 
Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies ! 
I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand, 
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight 
Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ. 



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IMITATED FROM THE WELSH- Z67 

Yet oft when after honourable toil 
Rests the tired miad, and waking loves to dream, 
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear cot ' 
Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose, 
And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. 
And I shall sigh fond wishes — sweet abode ! 
Ah ! — had none greater I And that all had such ! 
It might be so — but the time is not yet. 
Speed it, O Father ! Let thy kingdom come ! 



IMITATED FROM THE WELSH. 



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If, while my passion I impart, 
You deem my words untrue, 

O place your hand upon my heart — 
Feel how it throbs for you ! 



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Ah no ! reject the thoughtless claim 

In pity to your lover ! 
That thrilling touch would aid the flame 

It wishes to discover. 



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TO AN INFANT, 



TO AN INFANT 




238 



Ah ! cease thy tears and sobs, my little life ! 
I did but snatch away the unclasped knife : 
Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye, 
And to quick laughter change this peevish 

cry ! 
Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of woe, 
Tutored by pain each source of pain to know 
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fir* 
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire ; 
Alike the good, the ill offend thy sight, 
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright ! 
Untaught, yet wise ! mid all thy brief alarms 
Thou closely chngest to thy mother's arms. 
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast 
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest I 

Man's breathing miniature ! thou mak'st me 

sigh — 
A babe art thou — and such a thing am I ! 
To anger rapid and as soon appeased. 
For trifles mourning and by ti;fles pleased 
Break Friendship's mirror with a tetchy blow. 
Yet snatch what coals offers on Pleasure's altar 

glow ! 



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thou that rearest with celestial aim 

The future seraph in my mortal frame, 

Thrice holy Faith ! whatever thorns I meet 

As on I totter with unpractised feet, 

Still let me stretch my arms and chng to thee, 

Meek nurse of souls through their long infancy ! 



LINES 

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM A FRIEND. 

Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems 

better 
Received from absent friend by way of letter. 
For what so sweet can laboured lays impart 
As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart ? 

Anon 

VoR travels my meandering eye 
The starry wilderness on high ; 

Nor now with curious sight 
I mark the glowworm as I pass, 
Move with " green radiance" through the grass, 

An emerald of light. 



O ever present to my -view ! 
My wafted spirit is with you, 






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240 LIJIES. 

And soothes your boding fears : 
I see you all oppresed with gloom 
Sit lonely in that cheerless room — 

Ah me ! you are in tears ! 

Beloved woman ! did you fly 

Chilled Friendship's dark disliking eye 

Or Mirth's untimely din ? 
With cruel weight these trifles press 
A temper sore with tenderness, 

When aches the void within. 




But why with sable wand unblcst 
Should Fancy rouse within my breast 

Dim-visaged shapes of dread ? 
Untenanting its beauteous clay 
My Sara's soul has winged its way, 

And hovers round my head ! 

I felt it prompt the tender dream, 
When slowly sank the day's last gleam : 

You roused each gentler sense, 
As sighing o'er the blossom's bloom 
Mcok evening wakes its soft perfume 

With viewless influence. 

And hark, my love ! The sea-breeze moans 
,) Through yon reft house ! O'er rolling stones 



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In bo!d ambitious sweep, 
Tiie onward-surging tides supply 
Tiie snence of the cloudless sky 

With mimic thunders deep. 

Dark reddening from the channeled Isle 
I, Where stands one solitary pile 

Unslated by the blast) 
The watchfire, like a sullen star 
Twinkles to many a dozing tar 

Rude cradled on the mast. 

Even there — beneath the light-house tower- 
In the tumultuous evil hour 

Ere peace with Sara came, 
Time was, I should have thought it sweet 
To count the echoings of my feet, 

And watch the storm-vexed flame. 

And there in black soul-jaundiced fit 
A sad gloom-pampered man to sit, 

And hsien to the roar : 
When mountain surges bellowing deep 
With un uncouth monster leap 

Plunged foaminor on the shore. 



♦ The Holmes, in the Bristol Channel 
]6 




242 LINES. 

Then by the hghtning's blaze to mark 
Some toihng tempest-shattered bark , 

Her vam distress-guns hear ; 
And when a second sheet of Hght 
Flashed o'er the blackness of the night— 

To see no vessel there ! 

But Fancy now moje gaily sings ; 
Or if awhile she droop her wings, 

As sky-larks 'mid the corn, 
On summer fields she grounds her breast : 
The oblivious poppy o'er her nest 

Nods, till returning morn. 

O mark those smiling tears, that swell 
The opened rose ! From heaven they fell. 

And with the sun-beam blend. 
Blest visitations from above, 
Such are the tender woes of love 

Fostering the heart they bend ! 

When stormy midniglit howling round 
Beats on our roof with clattering sound. 

To me your arms you'll stretch : 
Great God ! you'll sry — To us so kind, 
O shelter from this loud bleak wind 

The houseless, friendless wretch! 

The tears that tremble down your cheek, 
Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek 







In Pity's dew divine ; 
And from your heart the sighs that steal 
yhall make your rising bosom feel 

The answering swell of mine ! 

How oft, my love ! with shapings sweet 
I paint the moment, we shall meet ! 

With eager speed I dart — ■ 
I sei'?e you in the vacant air, 
And fancy, with a husband's care 

I press you to my heart ! 

'Tis said, in summer's evening hour 
Flashes the golden-coloured flower, 

A fair electric flame : 
A.nd so shall flash my love-charged eye 
When all the heart's big ecstasy 

Shoots rapid through the frame ! 



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LINES 




WKITTEN AT THE KIN& S ARMS, KOSS, FORMERLY 
THE HOUSE OF "THE MAN OF ROSS." 



Richer than the mi'^'ers o'er 

hoards, 
Nobler than kings, or king-polluted. lords, 
Here dwelt the Man of Ross. O trav'iler, hear ! 
Departed merit claims a reverent tear. 
If 'neath this roof thy wine-cheer'd moments 

pass, 
Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass : 
To higher zest shall mem'ry wake thy soul, 
And virtue mingle in th' ennobled bowl. 
But if, like mine, ihro' life's distressful scene, 
Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been ; 
And if, thy breast with heart-sick anguish 

fraught, 
Thou journeyest onward, tempest-tossed in 

thought ; 
Here cheat thy cares ! in gen'rous visions melt, 
And dream of goodness, thou hast never felt ! 



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KISSES. 

Cupid, if storying legends tell aright, 

Once fram'd a rich EHxir of Delight. 

A Chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd, 

And m it nectar and ambrosia mix'd : 

With these the magic dews which Evening 

brings, 
Brush'd from the Idahan star by faery wings: 
Each tender pledge of sacred Faith he join'd, 
1,^ Each gentler pleasure of th' mispotted mind — 

^ay-dreams, whose tints with sportive bright- 
ness glow. 
And Hope, the blameless parasite of Woe. 
The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise, 
The steady Chalice bubbled up in sighs ; 
Sweet sounds transpir'd, as when the cnamour'd 

dove 
Pours the soft murm'ring of responsive love. 
The finished work might Envy vainly blame, 
And ' Kisses' was the precious compound's 

name. 
With half the God his Cyprian Mother blest, 
And breath'd on Sara's lovelier lips the rest. 




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246 



THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 



PREFATORY NOTE. 




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A prose composition, one not in metre at least, 
seems prima facie to require explanation or apology. 
It was written in the year 1798, near Nether Stowey, 
in Somersetshire, at which place (sanctum et ania- 
bile nonien ! rich by so many associations and recol- 
lections) the author had taken up his residence in 
ordar to enjoy the society and close neighbourhood 
of a dear and honoured friend, T. Poole, Esq. The 
work was to have been written in concert with an- 
other, whose name is too vmerable within the pre- 
cincts of genius to be unnecessarily brought into 
conne.xion with such a trifle, and w!io was ther, 
residing at a small distance from Neiher Stowey. 
The tills and subject were suggested by myself, who 
likewise drew out the scheme and the contents for 
each of the three books or cantos, of which the work 
was to consist, and which, the reader is to be 
formed, was to have been finished in one night I My 
partner undertook the first canto : I the second : and 
whichever had done first, was to set about the third. 
Almost thirty yenrs gave passed by ; yet at this mo- 
•r.cnt I cannot without something more tlian a smile, 
moot the question which of the two things was Iho 
more impracticable, for a mind so eminently original 
to compose another man's thoughts and fancies, or 




#" 






THE WANDERINGS OF 

for a taste so austerely pure and simple to imitate 
the Death of Abel? Methinks I see his grand and 
noble countenance as at the moment when havina 
despatched my own portion of the task at full finger- 
speed, I hastened to him with my manuscript — tJiat 
look of humorous despondency fixed on his almost 
blank sheet of paper, and then its silent mock-piteous 
admission of failure struggling with the sense of the 
exceeding ridiculousness of the whole scheme — 
which broke up in a laugh : and the Ancient Mariner 
was written instead. 

Years afterward, however, the draft of the plan 
and proposed incidents, and the portion executed, 
obtained favour in the eyes of more than one person, 
whose judgment on a poetic work could not but have 
weighed with me, even though no parental partiality 
nad been thrown into the same scale, as a make- 
weight . and I determined on commencing anew, 
and composing the whole in stanzas, and made some 
progress in realizing this intention, when adverse 
gales drove my bark off the "Fortunate Isles" of tlie 
Muses: and then other and more momentous inte- 
rests prompted a different voyage, to firmer anchor- 
age and a securer port. I have in vain tried to 
recover the lines from the palimpsest tablet of my 
memory : and I can only offer the introductory 
stanza, which had been committed to writing for 
the purpose of procuring a friend's judgment on the 
metre, as a specimen. 




Encinctured with a twine of leaves, 
That leafy twine his only dress ! 
A lovely boy was plucking fruiti*, 






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THE WAJ>:DERIKGS of CAIN 




By moonlight, in a wilderness. 

The moon was bright, the air was free. 

And fruits and flowers together grew 

On many a shrub and many a tree : 

And all put on a gentle hue, 

Hanging in the shadowy air 

Like a picture rich and rare. 

It was a climate wiiere, they say, 

The night is more belov'd than day. 

ut who that beauteous boy beguil'd, 
That beauteous boy to linger here 1 
Alone, by night, a'little child, 
In place so silent and so wild — 
Has he no friend, no loving mother nearl 







CANTO II. 

" A LITTLE further, O my father, yet a little 
farther, and we shall come into the open moon- 
light." Their road was through a forest of fir- 
trees ; at its entrance the trees stood at distances 
from each other, and the path was broad, and 
tlic moonlight and the moonlight shadov/s re- 
posed upon it, and appeared quietly to inhabit 
that goiitude. Bui scon the paih winded and 
became narrow ; the sun at high noon sonie- 
titncs speckled, but never illumined it, and now 
it was dark as a cavern. 



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THE ^VA^'DEKIN 

" It is dark, O my father!" said Enos, " but 
tho path under our feet is sm<^th and soft, and 
we shall soon come out mto the open moonhght," 

"Lead on, my child!" said Cain: "guide 
me, little child !" And the innocent little chi ' 
clasped a finger of the hand which had murdered 
the righteous Abel, and he guided his lather. 
"The fir branches drip upon thee, my son." 
"Yea, pleasantly, father, for I ran fast and 
eagerly to bring thee the pitcher and the cake, 
and my body is not yet cool. How happy the 
squirrels arc that feed on these fir-trees ! they 
leap from bough to bough, and the old squirrels 
play ro\ind their young ones in the nest. I 
clomb a tree yesterday at noon, O my father, 
that I might play whh them, but they leaped 
away from the branches, even to the slender 
twigs did they leap, and in a moment I beheld 
them on another tree. Why, O my fathpr, 
would they not play with me ? I would be 
good to (hem as thou art good to me : and I 
groaned to them even as thou groa'iest when 
thou givest me to eat, and when thou coveresi 
me at evening, and as often as I stand at thy 
knee and thine eyes look at me ?" Then CaiiT 
stopped, and stifling his groans he sank to the 
earth, and the child Enos stood in the darkness 
beside him. 







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THE WANDERT>'GS OF CAIN. 



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And Cain lifted up his voice and cried bitiorlv, 
and said, " The Mighty One that persecute; h 
me is on this side and on that ; he pursueth my 
soul like the winrl, hke the sand-blast he passeth 
through me ; he is around me even as the air ! 

that I might be utterly no more ! I desire to 
die — yea, the things that never had hfe, neither 
move they upon the earth — behold . they seem 
precious to mine eyes. O that a man might live 
without the breath of his nostrils. So I might 
abide in darkness, and blackness, and an empty 
space ! Yea, I would He down, I would not 
rise, neither would I stir my hmbs till I became 
as the rock in the den of the lion, on which the 
young lion resteth his head whilst he sleepeth. 
For the torrent that roareth far off hath a voice : 
and the clouds in heaven look terribly on me ; 
the Mighty One who is against me speaketh in 
the wind of the cedar grove ; and in silence am 

1 dried up." Then Enos spake to his father, 
"Arise, my father, arise, we are but a little 
way from the place where I found the cake and 
the pitcher." And Cain said, " How knowesi 
thou?" and the child answered — " Behold the 
bare rocks are a few of thy strides distant from 
the forest ; and while even now thou wert lift- 
ing up thy voice, I heard the echo." Then the 
child took hold of his father, as if he would raise 



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THE AVANDERINGS OF CAIN. 

him : and Cain bein^ faint and feeble rose 
slowly on his knees and pressed himself against 
the trunk of a fir, and stood upright and followed 
the child. 

The path was dark till within three strides' 
length of hs termination, when it turned sud- 
denly ; the thick black trees formed a low arch, 
and the moonlight appeared for a moment like 
a dazzling portal. Enos ran before ar^d stood 
in the open air ; and when Cain, his father, 
emerged from the darkness, the child was 
affrighted. For the mighty limbs of Cain were 
wasted as by fire ; his hair was as the matted 
curls on the bison's forehead, and so glared his 
fierce and sullen eye beneath : and the black 
abundant locks on either side, a rank and tangled 
mass, were stained and scorched, as though the 
grasp of a burning iron hand had striven to rend 
them ; and his countenance told in a strange 
and terrible language, of agonies that had been, 
and were, and were still to continue to be. 

The scene around was deso-late ; as far as the 
eye coidd reach it was desolate : the bare rocks 
faced each other, and left a long and wide inter- 
val of thin white sand. You might wander on 
and look round and round, and peep into the 
crevines of the rocks and discover nothing that 
acknowledged the influence of the seasons. 



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There was no spring, no summer, no autumn : 
and the winter's snow, that would have been 
lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and scorching 
sands. Never morning lark had poised himself 
over this desert ; but the huge serpent often 
lissed there beneath the talons of the vulture, 
and the vulture screamed, his wings imprisoned 
wiihin the coils of the serpent. The pointed 
and shattered summits of the ridges of the rocks 
made a rude mimicry of human concerns, and 
seemed to prophesy mutely of things that then 
were not ; steeples, and battlements, and ships 
with naked masts. As far from the wood 
as a boy might sling a pebble of the brook, there 
was one rock by itself at a small distance from 
the main ridge. It had been precipitated there 
perhaps by the groan which the Earth uttered 
when our first father fell. Before you ap- 
proached, it appeared to lie flat on the ground, 
but its base slanted from its point, and between 
its point and the sands, a tall man might stand 
upright. It was here that Enos had found the 
pitcher and cake, and to this place lie led his 
father. But ere they had reached the rock they 
beheld a human shape : his back was towards 
them, and they were advancing unperceived, 
when they heard hin- smite his breast and cry 
aloud, " VVoe is me ! woe is me ! I must never 



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die again, and yet I am perishing with thirst and 
hunger." 

PaUid, as the reflection of the sheeted light- 
ning on the heavy-sailing night-cloud, became 
the face of Cain ; but the child Enos took hold 
of the shaggy skin, his father's robe, and raised 
his eyes to his father, and listening whispered, 
"Ere yet I could speak, I am sure, O my 
father, that I heard that voice. Have I not often 
said that I remembered a sweet voice ? O my 
father ! this is it :"' and Cain trembled exceed- 
ingly. The voice was sweet indeed, but it svas 
thin and querulous, like that of a feeble slave in 
misery, who despairs altogether, yet can not 
refrain himself from weeping and lamentation. 
And, behold! Enos glided forward, and creep- 
ing softly round the base of the rock, stood be- 
fore the stranger, and looked up into his face. 
And the Shape shrieked, and turned round, and 
Cain beheld him, that his Hmbs and his face 
were those of his brother Abel whom he had 
killed ! And Cain stood hke one who struggles 
in his sleep because of the exceeding terribleness 
of a dream. 

Thus as he stood in silence and darkness of 
soul, the Shape fell at his feet, and embraced his 
Icnecs, and cried out with a bitter outcry, 
" Thou eldest born of Adam, whom Eve, my 



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THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 



mother, brought forth, cease to tormejit me ! 1 
was feeding my flocks in green pastures by the 
side of quiet rivers, and thou killedst me ; and 
now I am in misery." Then Cain closed his 
eyes, and hid them with his hands; and again he 
opened his eyes, and looked around him, and 
said to Enos, "What beholdest thou? Didst 
thou hear a voice, my son ?" " Yes, my father, 
I beheld a man in unclean garments, and he 
uttered a sweet voice, full of lamentation." Then 
Cain raised up the Shape that was like Abel, 
and said: — "The Creator of our father, who 
nad respect unto thee, and unto thy offering, 
wherefore hath he forsaken thee?" Then the 
Shape shrieked a second time, and rent his gar- 
ment, and his naked skin was like the white 
sands beneath their feet ; and he shrieked yet a 
third time, and threw himself on his face upon 
the sand that was black with the shadow of the 
rock, and Cain and Enos sate beside him ; the 
child by his right hand, and Cain by his left. 
They were all three under the rock, and within 
the shadow. The Shape that was like Abel 
raised himself up, and spake to the child: " I 
know where the cold waters arc, but I may not 
drink, wherefore didst thou then take away my 
pitcher ?" But Cain said, " Didst thou not find 
favour in the sight of the Lord thy God?" The 







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THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 

Shape answered, "The Lord is God of the 
living only, the dead have another God." 
Then the child Enos lifted up his eyes and 
prayed ; but Cain rejoiced secretly in his heart. 
" Wretched shall they be all the days of their 
mortal life," exclaimed the Shape, " who sacra- 
fice worthy and acceptable sacrifices to the God 
of the dead ; but after death their toil ceaseth. 
Woe is me, for I was well beloved by the God 
of the living, and cruel wert thou, O my brother, 
who didst snatch me away from his power and 
his dominion." Having uttered these words, 
he rose suddenly, and fled over the sands : and 
Cain said in his heart, " The curse of the 
Lord is on me; but who is the God of the 
dead?" And he ran after the Shape, and the 
Shape fled shrieking over the sands, and the 
sands rose like white mists behind the steps of 
Cain, but the feet of him that was like Abel 
disturbed not the sands. He greatly outrun 
Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round, and 
came again to the rock where they had been 
sitting, and where Enos still stood ; and the 
child caught hold of his garment as he passed 
by, and he fell upon the ground. And Cain 
stopped, and beholding him not, said, " He has 
passed into the dark woods," and he walked 
slowly back to the rock ; and when he reached 










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THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 

it the child told him that he had caught hold ol 
his garment as he passed by, and that the man 
had fallen upon^-the ground : and Cain once 
more sate beside him, and said, "Abel, my 
brother, I would lament for thee, but that the 
spirit within me is withered, and burnt up with 
extreme agony. Now, I pray thee, by thy 
flocks, and by thy pastures, and by the quiet 
rivers which thou lovedst, that thou tell me all 
that thou knowest. Who is the God of the 
dead ? where doth he make hisdweUing ? what 
sacrifices are acceptable unto him ? for I have 
offered, but have not been received ; I have 
prayed, and have not been heard ; and how can 
I be afflicted more than I already am ?" The 
Shape arose and answered, " that thou hadst 
had pity on me as I will have pity on thee. 
Follow me, son of Adam ! and bring thy child 
with thee !" 

And t'hey three passed over the white sands ^^ 
between the rocks, silent as the shadows. 



^^ 



THE END. 




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